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97 All in a Garden Fair 20 

137 Uncle Jack . ’ . . . , . , , . 10 

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651 Self or Bearer ’* 10 

882 Children of Gibeon 20 

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1065 Herr Paulus: His Kise, Has Greatness, and His Fall . 20 
1151 For Faith and Freedom 20 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


CHAPTER L 

FAREWELL SUNDAY. 

The morning of Sunday, August the 23d, in the year of 
grace 1662, should have been black and gloomy, with the 
artillery of rolling thunder, dreadful flashes of lightning, and 
driving hail and wind to strip the orchards and lay low the 
corn. For on that day was done a thing which filled the whole 
country with grief, and bore bitter fruit in after-years of re- 
venge and rebellion. Because it was the day before that 
formerly named after Bartholomew the disciple, it hath been 
called the Black Bartholomew of England, thus being likened 
with that famous day (approved by the Pope) when the French 
Protestants were treacherously massacred by their king. It 
should rather be called ‘^Farewell Sunday,'’^ or Exile Sun- 
day, because on that day two thousand godly ministers 
preached their last sermon in the churches where they had 
labored worthily and with good fruit, some during the time of 
the Protector, and some even longer, because among them 
were a few who possessed their benefices even in the time of 
the late King Charles the First. And ^ince on that day two 
thousand ministers left their churches and their houses, and 
laid down their worldly t\^ealth>j^r conscience^ sake, there were 
also as many wives who went wnh them, and, I dare say, three 
or four times as many inliocent and helpless babes. And, 
further (it is said that the time wa^ fixed by design and deliber- 
ate malice of our enemies), the ministers were called upon to 
make their choice only a week or two before the day of the 
collection of their tithes. In other words, they were sent forth 
to the world at the season when their purses were the leanest; 
indeed, with most country clergymen, their purses shortly be- 
fore the collection of tithes became well-nigh empty. It was 
also unjust that their successors should be permitted to collect 
tithes due to those who were ejected. 

It is fitting to begin this history with the Black Bartholo- 


6 


FOR FAITH AKD FREEDOM. 


mew, because all the troubles and adventures which afterward 
befell us were surely caused by that accursed day. One knows 
not, certainly, what other rubs might have been ordained for 
us by a wise Providence (always with the merciful design of 
keeping before our eyes the vanity of worldly things, the in- 
stability of fortune, the uncertainty of life, and the wisdom of 
looking for a hereafter which shall be lasting, stable, and sat- 
isfying to the soul). Still, it must be confessed, such trials as 
were appointed unto us were, in severity and continuance, far 
beyond those appointed to the ordinary sort, so that I can not 
'but feel at times uplifted (I hope not sinfully) at having been 
called upon to endure so much. Let me not, however, be 
proud. Had it not been for this day, for certain, our boys 
would not have been tempted to strike a blow — vain and use- 
less as it proved — for the Protestant religion and for liberty of 
conscience; while perhaps I should now be forbidden to relate 
our sufferings, were it not for the glorious'Eevolution which 
has restored toleration, secured the Protestant ascendency, and 
driven into banishment a prince concerning whom all honest 
men pray that he and his son (if he have, indeed, a son of his 
own) may never again have authority over this realm. 

This Sunday, I say, should have wept tears of rain over the 
havoc which it witnessed; yet it was fine and clear, the sun 
riding in splendor, and a warm summer air blowing among 
the orchards and over the hills and around the village of Brad- 
ford Orcas, in the shire of Somerset. The wheat (for the sea- 
son was late) stood gold-colored in the fields, ready at last for 
the reaper; the light breeze bent down the ears so that they, 
showed like waves over which the passing clouds make light 
and shade; the app^ in the orchards were red and yellow and 
nearly ripe for the'^ffifess; in the gardens of the Manor House, 
hard by the church, the sunflowers and the hollyhocks were at 
their tallest and their best; thd^ellow roses on the wall were 
still in clusters; the sweet-pelif ming with tangles of vine and 
flower upon their stalks; the""^chelor^s-buttons, the sweet 
mignonette, the nasturtium, the gillyflowers and stocks, the 
sweet-williams and the pansies, offered their late summer blos- 
soms to the hot sun among the lavender, thyme, parsley, sage, 
feverfew, and vervain of my lady^s garden. Oh! I know how 
it all looked, though I was yet unborn. How many times 
have I stood in the church-yard and watched the same scene 
at the same sweet season! On a week-day one hears the thump- 
ing and the groaning of the mill below the church; there are 
the voices of the men at work — the yo-hoing of the boys who 
dffive, and the lumbering of the carts. You can even hear the 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


7 


spinning-wheels at work in the cottages. On Sunday morning 
everything is still, save for the warbling of the winged tribe in 
the wood, the cooing of the doves in the cot, the clucking of 
the hens, the grunting of the pigs, and the droning of the 
bees. These things disturb not the meditations of one who is 
accustomed to. them. 

At eight o^ clock in the morning, the sexton, an ancient man 
and rheumatic, hobbled slowly through the village, key in 
hand, and opened the church door. Then he went into the 
tower and rung the first bell. I suppose this bell is designed 
to hurry housewives with their morning work, and to ad- 
monish the men that they incline their hearts to a spiritual 
disposition. This done, the sexton set open the doors of the 
pews, swept out the squire^s and the rector^s in the chancel, 
dusted the cushions of the pulpit (the reading-desk at this time 
was not used), opened the clasps of the great Bible, and swept 
down the aisle, as he had done Sunday after Sunday for fifty 
years. When he had thus made the church ready for the day^s 
service, he went into the vestry, which had only been used since 
the establishment of the Commonwealth for the registers of 
birth, death and marriage. 

At one side of the vestry stood an ancient black oak coffer, 
the sides curiously graven, and a great rusty key in the lock. 
The sexton turned the key with some difficulty, threw open 
the lid and looked in. 

Ay,^^ he said, chuckling, ‘^the old surplice and the old 
Book of Common Prayer. Ye have had a long rest; Tis time 
for both to come out again. When the surplice is out, the 
book will stay no longer locked ujd. Thesp two go in and out 
together. I mind me, now — Here he -sat down, and his 
thoughts wandered for a space; perhaps he saw himself once 
more a boy running in the^elds, or a young man courting a 
maid. Presently he returneck to' the task before him, and drew 
forth an old and yellow roll, ^hich he shook out. It was the 
surplice, which had once been white. Here you are,^^ he 
said; put you away for a matter of twelve year or more and 
you bide your time; you know you will come back again; you 
are not in any hurry. Even the sexton dies; but you die not, 
you bide your time. Everything comes again. The old wom- 
an shall give you a taste o^ the suds and the hot iron. Thus 
we go up and thus we go down. He put back the surplice 
and locked the great Book of Common Prayer — musty and 
damp after twelve years^ imprisonment. he said; 

the leather is parting from the boards, and the leaves they 
do stick together. Shalt have a pot of paste, and then lie in 


8 


^Oil FAITH A]srb FKEEDOM. 


the sun, before thou goest back to the desk; whether ^tis mass 
or Common Prayer, whether ^tis Independent or Presbyterian, 
folk mun still die and be buried — ay, and married and born — 
whatever they do say. Parson goes and preacher comes; 
preacher goes and parson comes; but sexton stays — He 
chuckled again, put back the surplice and the book, and 
locked the cofler. Then he slowly went down the church and 
came out of the porch, blinking in the sun and shading his old 
eyes. He sat down upon the flat stones of the old cross, and 
presently nodded his head and dropped oil asleep. 

It was a strange indifference in the man. A great and truly 
notable thing was to be accomplished that day. But he cared 
nothing. Two thousand godly and learned men were to go 
forth into poverty for liberty of conscience; this man’s own 
minister was one of them. He cared nothing. The king was 
sowing the seed from which should spring a rod to drive forth 
his successor from the kingdom. In the village the common 
sort were not moved. Nothing concerns the village folk but 
the weather and the market prices. As for the good sexton, 
he was very old; he had seen the Church of England displaced 
by the Presbyterians, and the Presbyterians by the Independ- 
ents, and now these were again to be supplanted by the Church 
of England. He had been sexton through all these changes. 
He heeded them not; why, his father, sexton before him, 
could remember when the mass was said in the church and the 
Virgin was worshiped, and the folk were driven like sheep to 
confession. All the time the people went on being born and 
marrying and dying. Creed doth not truly affect these things 
nor the sexton’s work. Therefore this old gaffer, having made 
sure that the surplice was in the place where it had lain undis- 
turbed for a dozen years, and remembering that it must be 
washed and ironed for the followi^ Sunday, sat down to bask 
in the sun, his mind at rest,| anu dropped off into a gentle 
sleep. 

At ten o’clock the bell-ringers came tramping up the stone 
steps from the road, and the sexton woke up. At ten they 
used to begin their chimes, but at the hour they ring for five 
minutes only, ending with the clash of all five bells together. 
At a quarter past ten they chime again, for the service, which 
begins at half past ten. 

At the sound of these chimes the whole village begins to 
move slowly toward the church. First come the children, the 
bigger ones leading those who are little by the hand; the boys 
come next, but unwillingly, because the sexton is diligent with 
his cane, and some of those who now go up the steps to the 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


9 


church will come down with smarting backs, the reward of 
those who play or laugh during the service. Then come the 
young men, who stand about the church-yard and whisper to 
each other. After them follow the elders and the married 
men, with the women and the girls. Five minutes before the 
half hour the ringers change the chime for a single bell. Then 
those who are outside gather in the porch and wait for the 
quality. 

When the single bell began there came forth from the 
rectory the rector himself, Mr. Comfort Eykin, Doctor of 
Divinity, who was this day to deliver his soul and lay down his 
charge. He wore the black gown and Geneva bands, for the 
use of which he contended. At this time he was a young man 
of thirty — tall and thin. He stooped in the shoulders because 
he was continually reading; his face was grave and austere; his 
nose thin and aquiline; his .eyes bright — never was any man 
with brighter eyes than my father; his hair, which he wore 
long, was brown and curly; his forehead high, rather than 
broad; his lips were firm. In these days, as my mother hath 
told me, and as I well believe, he was a man o^ singular comeli- 
ness, concerning which he cared nothing. Always from child- 
hood upward he had been grave in conversation and seriously 
inclined in mind. If I think of my father as a boy (no one 
ever seems to think that his father was once a boy), I am fain 
to compare him with Humphrey, save for certain bodily de- 
fects, my father having been like a priest of the altar for bodily 
perfection. That is to say, I am sure that, like Humphrey, 
he had no need of rod or ferule to make him learn his lessons, 
and, like that dear and fond friend of my childhood, he would 
willingly sit in a corner and read a book while the other boys 
played and went a-hunting or a-nesting. And very early in 
life he was smitten with the conviction of sin, and blessed with 
such an inward assurance of salvation as made him afterward 
steadfast in all afflictions. 

He was not a native of this country, having been born in 
New England. He came over, being then eighteen years of 
age, to study at Oxford, that university being purged of malig- 
nanfcs, and at the time entirely in the hands of the godly. He 
was entered of Balliol College, of which Society he became a 
Fellow, and was greatly esteemed for his learning, wherein he 
excelled most of the scholars of his time. He knew and could 
red Hebrew, Chaldee, and the ancient Syriac, as well as Latin 
and Greek. Of modern languages he had acquired Arabic, by 
the help of which he had read the book which is called the 
Koran of the False Prophet Mohammed; French and Italian 


10 


FOU FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


he also knew and could read easily. As for his opinions, he 
was an Independent, and that not meekly or with hesitation, 
but with such zeal and vehemence that he considered all who 
differed from him as his personal enemies — nay, the very 
enemies of God. For this reason, and because his personal 
habits were too austere for those who attained not to his 
spiritual height, he was more feared than loved. Yet his party 
looked upon him as their greatest and stoutest champion. 

He left Oxford at the age of five- or six-and-twenty, and 
accepted the living of Bradford Orcas, offered him by Sir Chris- 
topher Challis at that place. Here he had preached for six 
years, looking forward to nothing else than to remain there, 
advancing in grace and wisdom, until the end of his days. So 
much was ordered, indeed, for him; but not quite as he had 
designed. Let no man say that he knoweth the future, or that 
he can shape out his destiny. You shall hear presently how 
Benjamin arrogantly resolved that his future should be what 
he chose; and what came of that impious resolution. 

My father’s face was always austere; this morning it was 
more serious and sterner than customary, because the day was 
to him the most important in his life, and he was about to pass 
from a position of plenty (the Eectory of Bradford Orcas is not 
rich, but it affords a sufficiency) to one of penury. Those who 
knew him, however, had no doubt of the course he was about 
to take. Even the rustics knew that their minister would 
never consent to wear a surplice, or to read the Book of Com- 
mon Prayer, or to keep holy days — you have seen how the sex- 
ton opened the box and took out the surplice; yet my father 
had said nothing to him concerning his intentions. 

In his hand he carried his Bible — his own copy; I have it 
still, the margins covered with notes in his writing — bound in 
black leather, worn by constant handling, with brass clasps. 
Upon his head he had a plain black silk cap, which he wore 
constantly in his study and at meals to keep off draughts. In- 
deed, I loved to see him with the silk cap rather than with his 
tall steeple hat, with neither ribbon nor ornament of any kind, 
in which he rode when he afterward went about the country to 
break the law in exhorting and praying with Iris friends. 

Beside him walked my mother, hoiaing in her hand her boy, 
my brother Barnaby, then three years of age. As for me, I 
was not yet born. She had been weeping; her eyes were red 
and swollen with tears; but when she entered the church she 
wept no more, bravely listening to the words which condemned 
to poverty and hardship herself and her children, if any more 
should be born to her. Alas, poor soul! What had she done 


FOE FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


11 


that this afiSictioii should befall her? What had her innocent 
boy done? For upon her, not upon her husband, would fall 
the heavy burden of poverty, and on her children the loss. 
Yet never by a single word of complaint did she make her 
husband sorry that he had obeyed the voice of conscience, even 
when there was nothing left in the house, not so much as the 
widow^s cruse of oil. Alas, poor mother, once so free from 
care, what sorrow and anxiety wert thou destined to endure for 
the tender conscience of thy husband! 

At the same time — namely, at the ringing of the single bell 
— there came forth from the Manor House hard by the church 
his Honor Sir Christopher, with his family. The worthy knight 
was then about fifty years of age, tall and handsome still; in 
his later years there was something of a heavenly sweetness in 
his face, created, I doubt not, by a long life of pious thoughts 
and worthy deeds. His hair was streaked with gray, but not 
yet white; he wore a beard of the kind called stiletto, which 
was even then an ancient fashion, and he was dressed more 
soberly than is common with gentlemen of his rank, having no 
feather in his hat, but a simple ribbon round it, and though 
his ruffles were of lace and the kerchief round his neck was 
lace, the color of his coat was plain brown. He leaned upon 
a gold-headed cane, on account of an old wound (it was in- 
fiicted by a cavalier^s musket- ball when he was a captain in the 
army of Lord Essex). The wound left him somewhat lame, 
yet not so lame but that he could very well walk about his 
fields, and could ride his horse, and even hunt with the otter- 
hounds. By his side walked madame his wife. After him 
came his son, Humphrey, newly married, and with Humphrey 
his wife; and last came his son-in-law, the Eeverend Philip 
Boscorel, M.A., late Fellow of All-Souls’ College, Oxford, also 
newly married, with his wife. Sir Christopher’s daughter 
Patience. Mr. Boscorel, like my father, was at that time thirty 
years of age. Like him, too, his face was comely and his feat- 
ures fine, yet they lacked the fire and the earnestness which 
marked my father. And in his silken cassock, his small white 
hands, his lace ruffles, and his dainty walk, it seemed as if Mr. 
Boscorel thought himself above the common run of mankind, 
and of superior clay. ’Tis sometimes the way with scholars 
and those who survey the world from the eminence of a library. 

Sir Christopher’s face was full of concern, because he loved 
the young man who was this day to throw away his livelihood; 
and although he was ready himself to worship after the man- 
ner prescribed by law, his opinions were rather Independent 
than Episcopalian. As for Mr. Boscorel, who was about to 


12 


POR PAITH AKD FREEDOM. 


succeed to the ejected minister^ his face wore no look of tri- 
umph, which would have been ungenerous. He was observed, 
indeed, after he had silently gone through the service of the 
day with the help of a prayer-book, to listen diligently unto 
the preacher. 

The people, I have already said, knew already what was 
about to happen. Perhaps some of them (but I think not) 
possessed a copy of the old prayer-book. This, they knew, was 
to be restored, with the surplice, and the observance of holy 
days, feasts, and fasts, and the kneeling at the administration 
of the Holy Communion. Our people are craftsman as much 
as they are rustics; every week the master-clothiers^ men drive 
their pack-horses into the village laden with wool, and return 
with yarn; they are not, therefore, so brutal and sluggish as 
most; yet they made no outward show of caring whether 
Prelacy or Independence was to have the sway. Perhaps the 
abstruse doctrines which my father loved to discuss were too 
high for them; perhaps his austerity was too strict for them, 
so that he was not beloved by them. Perhaps, even, they 
would have cared little if they had heard that Bishop Bonner 
himself was coming back. Religion, to country folks, means, 
mostly, the going to church on Sunday morning. That done, 
man^s service of prayer and praise to his Creator is also done. 
If the form be changed, the Church remains, and the church- 
yard; one shepherd followeth another, but the flock is always 
the same. Revolutions overthrow kings, and send great heads 
to the block; but the village heedeth not, unless civil war pass 
that way. To country folk, what difference? The sky and 
the flelds are unchanged. Under Queen Mary they are Papists; 
under Queen Elizabeth they are Protestants. They have the 
prayer-book under King James and King Charles; under Oliver 
they have had the Presbyterian and Independent services; now 
they have the Book of Common Prayer and the surplice again. 
Yet they ‘remain the same people, and tell the same stories, 
and, so far as I know, believe the same things, viz. , that Jesus 
Christ saves the soul of every man who truly believes in Him. 
Why, if it were not for his immortal soul — concerning which 
he takes but little thought — the rustic might be likened unto 
the patient beast whom he harnesseth to his plow and to his 
muck-cart. He change th no more; he works as hard; he is 
as long-enduring; his eyes and his thoughts are as much bound 
by the hedge, the lane and the fleld; he thinks and invents 
and advances no more. Were it not, I say, for the Church, 
he would take as little heed of anything as his ox or his ass; 
his village would become his country; his squire would become 


FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. 


13 


his king; the nearest village would become the camp of an 
enemy; and he would fall into the condition of the ancient 
Briton when J ulius Cassar found every tribe fighting against 
every other. 

I talk as a fool. For sometimes there falls upon the torpid 
soul of the rustic a spark which causes a mighty flame to blaze 
up and burn fiercely within him. I have read how a simple 
monk, called Peter the Hermit, drew thousands of poor, illiter- 
ate, credulous persons from their homes, and led them, a mob 
armed with scythes and pikes, across Europe to the deserts of 
Asia Minor, where they miserably perished. I have read also 
of Jack Oade, and how he drew the multitudes after him, cry- 
ing aloud for justice or death. And I myself have seen these 
sluggish spirits suddenly fired with a spirit which nothing could 
subdue. The sleeping soul I have seen suddenly starting into 
life; strength and swiftness have I seen suddenly put into 
sluggish limbs; light and fire have I seen gleaming suddenly 
in dull and heavy eyes. Oh! it was a miracle; but I have seen 
it. And, having seen it, I can not despise these lads of the 
plow, these honest boys of Somerset, nor can I endure to hear 
them laughed at or contemned. 

Bradford Orcas, in the Hundred of Horethorne, Somerset, 
is a village so far from the great towns that one would think a 
minister might have gone on praying and preaching after his 
own fashion without being discovered. But the arm of the 
law is long. 

The nearest town is Sherborne, in Dorsetshire, to which 
there is a bridle-path across the fields; it is the market-town 
for the villages round it. Bradford Orcas is a very obscure 
little village, with no history and no antiquities. It stands in 
the south-eastern corner of the county, close to the western 
declivity of the Cotton Hills, which here sweep round so as to 
form a valley, in which the village is built along the banks of 
a stream. The houses are for the most part of stone, with 
thatched roofs, as is the custom in our country; the slopes of 
the hills are covered with trees, and round the village there 
stand goodly orchards, the cider from which can not be sur- 
passed. As for the land, but little of it is arable; the greater 
part is a sandy loam or stone brash. The church which 
in the superstitious days w^as dedicated to St. Nicolas is built 
upon a hillock, a rising ground in the west of the village. 
This building of churches upon hillocks is a common custom 
in our parts, and seemeth laudable, because a church should 
stand where it can be seen by all the people, and by its pres- 
ence remind them of Death and of the Judgment. This 


14 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


practice doth obtain at Sherborne^ where there is a very noble 
church, and at Huish Episcopi, and at many other places in 
our county. Our church is fair and commodious, not too large 
for the congregation, having in the west a stone tower em- 
battled, and consisting of a nave and chancel, with a very fine 
roof of carved wood-work. There is an ancient yew-tree in the 
church-yard, from which in old times bows were cut; some of 
the bows yet hang in the great hall of the Manor House. 
Among the graves is' an ancient stone cross, put up no man 
knows when, standing in a six-sided slab of stone, but the top 
was broken ofi at the time of the Eeformation; two or three 
tombs are in the church-yard, and the rest is covered with 
mounds, beneath which lie the bones and dust of former gen- 
erations. 

Close to the church-yard, and at the north-east corner, is the 
Manor House, as large as the church itself, but not so ancient. 
It was built in the reign of Henry VH. A broad arched gate- 
way leads into a court, wherein is the entrance to the house. 
Over the gate- way is a kind of tower, but not detached from 
the house. In the wall of the tower is a panel, lozenge-shaped, 
in which are carved the arms of the Challis family. The house 
is stately, with many gables, and in each casement windows 
set in richly carved stone tracery. As for the rooms within 
the house, I will speak of them hereafter. At present I have 
the church-yard in my mind. There is no place upon the 
earth which more I love. To stand in the long grass among 
the graves; to gaze upon the wooded hills beyond, the orchards, 
the meadows, the old house, the venerable church, the yew- 
tree; to listen to the murmur of the stream below, and the 
singing of the lark above; to feel the fresh breeze upon my 
cheek — oh! I do this daily. It makes me feel young once 
more; it brings back the days when I stood here with the boys, 
and when Sir Christopher would lean over the wall and dis- 
course with us gravely and sweetly upon the love of God and 
the fieeting joys of earth (which yet, he said, we should accept 
and be happy withal in thankfulness), and the happiness un- 
speakable that awaiteth the Lord^s saints. Or, if my thoughts 
continue in the past, the grave-yard brings back the presence 
and the voice of Mr. Boscorel. 

In such a spot as this,^^ he would say, speaking softly and 
slowly, the pastorals of Virgil or Theocritus might have been 
written. Here would the shepherds hold their contests. 
Certainly they could find no place, even in sunny Sicily, or at 
Mantua itself, where (save for three months in the year) the 
air is more delightful. Here they need not to avoid the burning 


FOE FAITH AIID FEEEDOM. 


15 


lieafc of a sun which gently warms, but never burns; here they 
V70uld find the shade of the grove pleasant in the soft summer 
season. Innocent lambs instead of kids (which are tasteless) 
play in our meadows; the cider which we drink is, I take it, 
more pleasing to the palate than was their wine flavored with 
turpentine. And our viols, violins, and spinets are instru- 
ments more delightful than the oaten pipe, or the cithara 
itself. Then would he wave his hand, and quote some poet 
in praise of a country life — 

There is no man but may make his paradise. 

And it is nothing but his love and dotage 

Upon the world’s foul joys that keeps him out on’t. 

For he that lives retired in mind and spirit 
Is still in Paradise.” 

‘‘But, child,^^ he would add, with a s?gh, “one may not 
always wish to be in Paradise. The world^s joys lie elsewhere. 
Only, when youth is gone — then Paradise is best. 

The service began after the manner of the Independents, 
with a long prayer, during which the people sat. Mr. Bos- 
corel, as I have said, went through his own service in silence, 
the Book of Common Prayer in his hand. After the prayer, 
the minister read a portion of Scripture, which he expounded 
at length and with great learning. Then the congregation 
sung that psalm which begins — 

‘‘ Triumphing songs with glorious tongue 
Let’s offer unto Him.” 

This done, the rector ascended the pulpit for the last time, 
gave out his text, turned his hour-glass, and began his ser- 
mon. 

He took for his text those verses in St. PauPs Second Epistle 
to the Corinthians, vi. 3-10, in which the Apostle speaks of his 
own ministry as if he was actually predicting the tribulation 
which was to fall upon these faithful preachers of a later time — 
“ 111 much patience, in affliction, in necessities, in distresses, 
ill stripes, in imprisonments, in tumults, in labor, in watch- 
ings, in fastings — could not the very words be applied to my 
father? 

He read the text three times, so that everybody might fully 
understand the subject upon which he was to preach — namely, 
the faithfulness required of a minister of the gospel. I need 
not set down the arguments he used or the reasons he gave for 
his resolution not to, conform with the Act of Uniformity. 
The rustics sat patiently listening, with no outward sign of 


16 


FOE FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


assent or of sympathy. But their conduct afterward proved 
abundantly to which side their minds inclined. As for me, I 
am a woman, and therefore inclined to obey the voice of au- 
thority, so that, had I been born* a Papist, such I should have 
continued; and I am now a member of the Church of England 
because my husband is of that Church, yet not of the kind 
which is called High. 

It behooves us all to listen with respect when scholars and 
wise men inquire into the reasons of things. Yet the preach- 
ings and expositions which such as my father bestowed upon 
tlieir flocks did certainly awaken men^s minds to consider by 
themselves the things which many think too high for them. 
It is a habit which may lead to the foundation of false and 
pernicious sects. And it certainly is not good that men should 
preach the doctrines of the Anabaptists, the Fifth Monarchy 
men, or the Quakers. Yet it is better that some should be 
deceived than that all should be slaves. I have been assured 
by one — I mean Humphrey — who hath traveled, that in those 
countries where the priest taketh upon himself the religion of 
the people, so that they think to be saved by attending mass, 
by fasting, confession, penance, and so -forth, that not only 
does religion itself become formal, mechanical, and inanimate, 
but in the very daily concerns and business of life men grow 
slothful and lack spirit. Their religion, which is the very heat 
of the body, the sustaining and vital force of all man’s action, 
is cold and dead. Therefore all the virtues are cold also, and 
with them the courage and the spirit of the people. Thus it is 
that Italy hath fallen aside into so many small and divided 
kingdoms. And for this reason Spain, in the opinion of those 
who know her best, is now falling rapidly into decay. 

I am well assured by those who can remember that the in- 
telligence of the village folk greatly increased during the period 
when they were encouraged to search the Scriptures for them- 
selves. Many taught themselves to read, others had their 
children taught, in order that they might read or hear daily 
portions of the Scriptures. It is now thirty years since au- 
thority resumed the rule; the village folk have again become, 
to outward seeming, sheep who obey without questioning. 
Yet it is observed that when they are within reach of a town 
— that is to say, of a meeting-house — they willingly flock to 
the service in the afternoon and evening. 

It was with the following brave words that my father con- 
cluded his discourse: 

Seeing, therefore, my brethren, how clear is the Word of 
God on these points, and considering that we must always obey 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


17 


God rather than man, and observing that here we plainly see 
the finger of God pointing to disobedience and its consequence, 
I am constrained to disobey. The consequence will be to me 
that I shall stand in this place no more; to you, that you will 
have a stranger in your church. I pray that he may be a 
godly person, able to divide the Word, learned and acceptable. 

As for me, I must go forth, perhaps from among you alto- 
gether. If persecutions arise, it may behoove me and mine to 
seek again that land beyond the seas whither my fathers fled 
for the sake of religious liberty. Whatever happens, I must 
fain preach the gospel. It is laid upon me to preach. If I 
am silent, it will be as if Death itself had fallen upon me. My 
brethren, there have been times — and those times may return 
■ — when the elect have had to meet secretly, on the sides of 
barren hills and in the heart of the forest, to pray together and 
to hear the Word. I say that these times may return. If they 
do, you will find me willing, I hope and pray, to brave for you 
the worst that our enemies can devise. Perhaps, however, 
this tyranny may pass over. Already the Lord hath achieved 
one great deliverance for tliis ancient realm. Perhaps another 
may be in His secret purposes when we have been chastened, 
as, for our many sins, we richly deserve. Whether in affliction 
or in prosperity let us always say, ‘ The Lord^s name be 
praised!^ 

Now, therefore, for the sand is running low, and I may 
not weary tho young and the impatient, let me conclude. 
Farewell, sweet Sabbaths! Farewell, the sweet expounding of 
the Word! Farewell, sweet pulpit! Farewell, sweet faces of 
the souls which I have yearned to present pure and washed 
clean before the Throne! My brethren, I go about henceforth 
as a dog which is muzzled; another man will fill this pulpit; 
our simple form of worship is gone; the prayer-book and the 
surplice have come back again. Pray God we see not Con- 
fession, Penance, the Mass, the Inquisition, the inslavement 
of conscience, the stake, and the martyr^s ax!^^ 

Then he paused and bowed his head, and everybody thought 
that he had finished. 

He had not. He raised it again, and threw out his arms, 
and shouted aloud, while his eyes glowed like fire. 

No! I will not be silent. I will not. I am sent into 
the world to preach the gospel. I have no other business. I 
must proclaim the Word as I hope for everlasting life; breth- 
ren, we shall meet again. In the woods and on the hills we 
shall find a temple; there are houses where two or three may 
be gathered together, the Lord Himself being in their midst. 


18 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


Never doubt that I am ready, in season and out of season, 
whatever be the law, to preach the gospel of the Lord!^^ 

He ended, and straightway descended the pulpit stair, and 
stalked out of the church, the people looking after him with 
awe and wonder. But Mr. Boscorel smiled and wagged his 
head, with a kind of pity. 


CHAPTER II. 

THE BREAD-WIHKER. 

Thus did my father, by his own act and deed, strip himself 
of all his worldly wealth. Yet, having nothing, he ceased not 
to put his trust in the Lord, and continued to sit among his 
books, never asking whence came the food provided for him. 
I think, indeed, so wrapped was he in thought, that he knew 
not. As for procuring the daily food, my mother it was who 
found out the way. 

Those who live in other parts of this kingdom do not know 
what a busy and populous country is that of Somerset. Apart 
from the shipping and the great trade with Ireland, Sj)ain, 
and the West Indies carried on from the Port of Bristol, we 
have our great manufactures of cloth, in which we are sur- 
passed by no c(^untry in the world. The town of Taunton 
alone can boast of eleven hundred looms always at work mak- 
ing sagathies and Des Roys; there are many looms at Bristol, 
where they make for the most part druggets and cantaloons; 
then they are in great numbers at that rich and populous town 
of Frome Selwood, where they manufacture the Spanish med- 
leys. Besides the cloth-workers, we have, in addition, our 
knitted-stocking trade, which is carried on mostly at Glaston- 
bury and Shepton Mallet. Not only does this flourisliing trade 
make the masters rich and prosperous (it is not uncommon to 
find a master with his twenty — ay, and liis forty — thousand 
pounds), but it fills all the country with work, so that the 
towns are frequent, populous, and full of everything that men 
can want; and the very villages are not like those which may 
be seen in other parts, poor and squalid, but well built and 
comfortable. 

Every cottage has its spinning-wheel. The mother, when 
she is not doing the work of the house, sits at the wheel; the 
girls, when they have nothing else to do, are made to knit 
stockings. Every week the master-clothier sends round his 
men among the villages, their pack-horses laden with wool; 


FOR FAITH AKD FREEDOM. 19 

every week they return, their packs laden with yarn, ready for 
the loom. 

There is no part of England where the people are more pros- 
perous and more contented. Nowhere are there more towns, 
and all thriving; nowhere are the villages better built; nor can 
one find anywhere else more beautiful churches. Because the 
people make good wages they are independent in their man- 
ners; they have learned things supposed to be above the station 
of the humble; most of them in the towns, and many in the 
villages, are able to read. This enables them to search the 
Scriptures and examine into doctrine by the light of their own 
reason, guided by grace. And to me, the daughter of a Non- 
conforming preacher, it does not seem wonderful that so many 
of them should have become stiff and sturdy Non-(?onformists. 
This was seen in the year 1685, and again, two or three years 
later, when a greater than Monmouth landed on the western 
shores. 

My mother, then, seeing no hope that her husband would 
earn, by any work of his own, the daily bread of the house- 
hold, bravely followed the example of the women in the vil- 
lage. That is to say, she set up her spinning-wheel, and spent 
all the time that she could spare spinning the wool into yarn ; 
while she taught her little boy first, and afterward her daugh- 
ter — as soon as I was old enough to manage the needles — to 
knit stockings. What trade, indeed, could her husband fol- 
low save one — and that, by law, prohibited? He could not 
dig; he could not make anything; he knew not how to buy or 
sell; he could only study, write, and preach. Therefore, while 
he sat among his books in one room, she sat over her wliQ^l in 
the other, working for the master-clothiers of Frome Selwood. 
It still makes my heart to swell with pity and with love when 
I think upon my mother, thus spending herself and being 
spent, working all day, huckstering with the rough pack-horse 
men, more accustomed to exchange rude jests with the rustics . 
than to talk with gentlewomen. And this she continued to do 
year after year, cheerful and contented, so that her husband 
should never feel the pinch of poverty. Love makes us will- 
ing slaves. 

My father, happily, was not a man whose mind was troubled 
about food. He paid no heed at all to what he eat, provided 
that it was sufficient for his needs; he would sip his broth of 
pork and turnips and bread, after thanks rendered, as if it was 
the finest dish in the world; and a piece of cold bacon with a 
hot cabbage would be a feast for him. The cider which he 
drank was brewed by my mother from her own apples; to him 


20 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


it was as good as if it had been Sherris or Ehenish. I say that 
he did not even know how his food was provided for him; his 
mind was at all times occupied with subjects so lofty that he 
knew not what was done under his very eyes. The hand of 
God^ he said, doth still support His faithful. Doubtless we 
can not look back upon those years without owning that we 
were so supported. But my mother was the instrument; nay, 
my father sometimes even compared himself with satisfaction 
unto the Prophet Elijah, whom the ravens fed in the Brook 
Oherith, bringing him flesh and bread in the morning, and 
flesh and bread in the evening. I suppose my father thought 
that his bacon and beans came to him in the same manner. 

Yet we should sometimes have fared but poorly had it not 
been for the\jharity of our friends. Many a fat capon, green 
goose, side of bacon, and young grunter came to us from the 
Manor House, with tobacco, which my father loved, and wine 
to comfort his soul; yea, and clothes for us all, else had we 
gone barefoot and in rags. In this way was many an ejected 
Elijah at that time nourished and sujDported. Fresh meat we 
should never have tasted, any more than the humblest around 
us, had it not been for our good friends at the Manor House. 
Those who live in towns can not understand how frugal and 
yet sufficient may be the fare of those who live in the country 
and have gardens and orchards. Cider was our drink, which 
we made ourselves; we had some sweeh apple-trees, which gave 
us a stock of russets and pippins for winter use; we had bees 
(but we sold most of our honey) ; our garden grew salads and 
onions, beans and the like; skim-milk we could have from the 
Manqr House for the fetching; for breal^ast we had bread and 
milk, for dinner bread and soft chees€, with a lettuce or an 
apple; and bread or bread and butter for supper. For my 
father there was always kept a piece of bacon or fat pork. 

Our house was one of the cottages in the village; it is a stone 
house (often I sit down to look at it, and to remember those 
days of humility) ‘with a thick thatch. It had two rooms below 
and two garrets above. One room was made into a study or 
library for my father, where also he slept upon a pallet. The 
other was kitchen, spinning-room, parlor, all in one. The 
door opened upon the garden, and the floor was of stone, so 
that it was cold.' But when Barnaby began to find the use of 
his hands he procured some boards, which he laid upon the 
stones, and so we had a wooden floor; and in winter across the 
door we hung a curtain to keep ofl the wind. 

The walls were whitewashed, and over all my mother had 
written texts of Scripture with charcoal, so that godly admoni- 


FOR FAITH AKD FREEDOM. 


21 


tion was ever present to our eyes and minds. She also em- 
broidered short texts upon our garments, and I have still the 
cradle in which I was laid, carved (but I do not know by whose 
hand) with a verse from the Word of God. My father used 
himself, and would have us employ, the words of the Bible 
even for the smaller occasions of daily use; nor would he allow 
that anything was lawful unless it was sanctioned by the Bible, 
holding that in the Word was everything necessary or lawful. 
Did Barnaby go shooting with Sir Christopher and bring him 
a rabbit — Lo! David bade the children of Israel teach the use 
of the bow. Did my mother instruct and amuse me with rid- 
dles — she had the warrant of scripture for it in the example of 
Samson. Did she sing psalms and spiritual songs to while 
away the time and make her work less irksome and please her 
little daughter — in the congregation of Nehemiah there were 
two hundred. forty-and-five singing men and singing women. 

My father read and expounded the Bible to us twice a day — 
morning and evening. Besides the Bible we had few books 
which we could read. As for my mother, poor soul, she had 
no time to read. As for me, when I grew older I borrowed 
books from the Manor House or Mr. Boscorel. And there 
were Old Mr. Dod^s Sayings and Plain Directions by 
Joseph Large always on the shelf beside the Bible. 

How, while my father worked in his study, and my brother 
Barnaby sat over his lesson-book, hia hands rammed into his 
hair, as if determined to lose nothing, not the least scrap of 
his portion (yet knowing full well that on the morrow there 
would be not a word left in his poor unlucky noddle, and once 
more the whip), my mother would sit at her wheel earning the 
daily bread. And when I was little, she would tell me, speak- 
ing very softly, so as not to disturb the wrestling of her hus- 
band with a knotty argument, all the things which you have 
heard — how my father chose rather poverty than to worship 
at the altar of Baal; and how two thousand pious ministers, 
like-minded with himself, left their pulpits and went out into 
the cold for conscience’ sake. So that I was easily led to 
think that there were no Christian martyrs and confessors 
more excellent and praiseworthy than these ejected ministers 
(which still I believe). Then would she tell me further of 
how they fared, and how the common people do still reverence 
them. There was the history of John Norman, of Bridge- 
water; Joseph Chadwick, of Wrenford; Felix Howe, of West 
Torrington; George Minton, and many others. She also in- 
structed me very early in the history of the Protestant upris- 
ing over the best half of Europe, and showed me how, against 


22 


FOE FAITH AKD FEEEDOM. 


fearful odds^ and after burnings and tortures unspeakable, the 
good people of Germany, the Netherlands, and Great Britain 
won their freedom from the pope, so that my heart glowed 
within me to think of the great goodness and mercy which 
caused me to be born in a Protestant country. She also in- 
structed me, later, in the wickedness of King Charles, whom 
they now call a martyr, and in the plots of that king, and 
Laud, his archbishop, and how king and archbishop were both 
overthrown and perished when the people arose and would bear 
no more. In fine, my mother made me, from the beginning, 
a Puritan. As I remember my mother always, she was pale 
of cheek and thin; her voice was gentle; yet with her very 
gentleness she would make the blood to run quick in the veins, 
and the heart to beat. 

How have I seen the boys spring to their feet when she has 
talked with them of the great civil war and the Restoration! 
But always soft and gentle; her blue eyes never hashing; no 
wrath in her heart; but the truth, which often causeth righteous 
anger, always upon her tongue. 

One day, I remember, when I was a little girl playing in the 
garden, Mr. Boscorel walked down the village in his great 
silken gown, which seemed always new, his lace ruffs, and his 
white bands looking like a bishop at least, and walking deli- 
cately, holding up his gown to keep it from the dust and mud. 
When he spoke it was in a mincing speech, not like our rough 
Somersetshire ways. He stopped at our gate, and looked 
down the garden. It was a summer day; the doors and win- 
dows of the cottage were open; at our window sat my father 
bending over his books, in his rusty gown and black cap, thin 
and lank; at the door sat my mother at her wheel. 

Child, said the rector, take heed thou never forget in 
thine age the thing which thou seest daily in thy childhood. 

I knew not what he meant. 

Read and mark,^^ he said; yea, learn by heart what the 
wise man hath said of the good woman : ‘ She layeth her hand 
to the spindle . . , she maketh fine linen and selleth it . . . 
she eateth not the bread of idleness. . • . Let her works 
praise her in the gates. 


CHAPTER III. 

THE BOYS. 

The family of Challis, of Bradford Orcas, is well known; 
here there has always been a Challis from time immemorial. 


FOR FAITH AKD FREEDOM. 


23 


They are said to have been on the land before the time of the 
Conqueror. But because they have never been a great family 
like the Mohuns of Dunster^ but only modest gentlefolk with 
some four or five hundred pounds a yeai% they have not suf- 
fered^ like those great houses^ from the civil wars^ which, when 
they raged in the land, brought in their train so many at- 
tainders, sequestrations, beheadings, imprisonments, and fines. 
Whether the barons fought, or whether Cavaliers and Round- 
heads, the Challises remained at Bradford Orcas. 

Since the land is theirs and the village, it is reasonable that 
they should have done everything that has been done for the 
place. One of them built the church, but I know not when;' 
another built the tower; another gave the peal of bells. He 
who reigned here in the time of Henry VII. built the Manor 
House; another built the mill; the monuments in the church 
are all put up to the memory of Challises dead and gone; there 
is one, a very stately tomb, which figures to the life Sir Will- 
iam Challis (who died in the time of Queen Elizabeth), carved 
in marble, and colored, kneeling at a desk; opposite to him is 
his second wife, Grace, also kneeling. Behind the husband 
are three boys, on their knees, and behind the wife are three 
girls. Apart from this group is the effigy of Filipa, Sir Chris- 
t^opher^s first wife, with four daughters kneeling behind her. 
I was always sorry for Filipa, thus separated and cut off from 
the society of her husband. There are brasses on the floor 
with figures of other Challises, and tablets in the wall, and the 
Challises^ coat of arms is everywhere cut in lozenges, painted 
on wood, and shining in the east window. It always seemed 
to me, in my young days, that it was the grandest thing in the 
world to be a. Challis. 

In this family there was a laudable practice with the younger 
sons, that they stayed not at home, as is too often their cus- 
tom, leading indolent lives, without ambition or fortune, but 
they sallied forth and sought fortune in trade, or in the law, or 
in the Church, or in foreign service — wherever fortune is to be 
honorably won — so that, though I dare say some have proved 
dead and dry branches, others have put forth flowers and fruit 
abundantly, forming new and vigorous trees sprung from the 
ancient root. Thus, some have become judges, and some 
bishops, and some great merchants; some have crossed the 
ocean and are now settled in the plantations; some have at- 
tained rank and estates in the service of Austria. Thus, Sir 
Christopher^s brother Humphrey went to London and became 
a Levant merchant and adventurer, rising to great honor, and 
becoming alderman. I doubt not that he would have been 


24 : 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


made lord mayor but for his untimely death. And as for his 
wealth, which was rumored to be so great — but you shall hear 
of this in due time. 

That goodly following of his household which you have seen 
enter the church on Farewell Sunday was shortly afterward 
broken into by death. There fell upon the village (I think it 
was in the year 1665) the scourge of a putrid fever, of which 
there died, besides numbers of the village folk, madame her- 
self — the honored wife of Sir Christopher — Humphrey his son, 
and Mme. Patience Boscorel, his daughter. There were left to 
Sir Christopher, therefore, only his daughter-in-law and his in- 
fant grandson Kobin. And in that year his household was 
increased by the arrival of his grandnephew Humphrey. This 
child was the grandson of Sir Christopher ^s brother, the Tur- 
key or Levant merchant of whom I have spoken. He was 
rich and prosperous: his ships sailed out every year laden with 
I know not what, and returned with figs, dates, spices, gums, 
silks, and all kinds of precious commodities from eastern 
parts. It is, I have been told, a profitable trade, but subject 
to terrible dangers from Moorish pirates, who must be bravely 
fought and beaten ofi, otherwise ship and cargo will be taken, 
and captain and crew driven into slavery. Mr. Challis lived in 
Thames Street, close to Tower Hill. It is said that he lived 
here in great splendor, as befits a rich merchant who is also an 
alderman. 

Now, in the year 1665, as is very well known, the plague 
broke out in the city. There were living in the house the 
alderman, his wife, his son, his son^s wife, a daughter, and his 
grandson, little Humphrey. On the first outbreak of the 
pestilence they took counsel together and resolved that the 
child should be first sent away to be out of danger, and that 
they would follow if the plague spread. 

This was done, and a sober man, one of their porters or 
warehousemen, carried the child with his nurse all the way 
from London to Bradford Orcas. Alas! before the boy reached 
his great-uncle, the house in Thames Street was attacked by 
the plague, and every one therein perished. Thus was poor 
little Humphrey deprived of his parents. I know not who 
were his guardians or trustees, or what steps, if any, were 
taken to inquire into the alderman ^s estate; but when, next 
year, the great fire of London destroyed the house in Thames 
Street, with so many others, all the estate, whatever it had 
been, vanished, and could no more be traced. There must 
have been large moneys owing. It is certain that he had 
shares in ships. It has been supposed that he owned many 


1?0-R FAITH AHD FREEDOM. 


25 


houses in the city, but they were destroyed and their very site 
forgotten, and no deeds or papers, or any proof of ownership, 
were left. Moreover, there was nobody charged with inquiring 
into this orphan^s affairs. Therefore, in the general confusion, 
nothing at all was saved out of what had been a goodly prop- 
erty, and the child Humphrey was left without a guinea in the 
world. Thus unstable is fortune. 

I know not whether Humphrey received a fall in his infancy, 
or whether he was born with his deformity, but the poor lad 
grew up with a crooked figure, one shoulder being higher than 
the other, and his legs short, so that he looked as if his arms 
were too long for him. We, who saw him thus every day, 
paid no heed, nor did he suffer from any of those cruel gibes 
and taunts which are often passed upon lads thus afflicted. As 
he was by nature or misfortune debarred from the rough 
sports which pleased his cousins, the boy gave himself up to 
reading and study, and to music. His manner of speech was 
soft and gentle; his voice was always sweet, and afterward be- 
came strong as well, so that I have never heard a better singer. 

His face — ah, my brother Humphrey, what a lovely face 
was thine! All goodness, surely, was stamped upon that face. 
Never, never did an unworthy thought defile that candid soul, 
or a bad action cast a cloud upon that brow! Where art thou 
now, oh, Humphrey, brother and fond companion — whither 
hast thou fled? 

As for Eobin, Sir Christopher^s grandson, I think he was 
always what he is still, namely, a man of a joyous heart and a 
cheerful countenance. As a boy, he laughed continually, 
would sing more willingly than read, would play rather than 
work, loved to course and shoot and ride better than to learn 
Latin grammar, and would readily off-coat and fight with any 
who invited him. Yet not a fool or a clown, but always a 
gentleman in manners, and one who read such things as be- 
hooved a country gentleman, and scrupulous as to the point of 
honor. Such as he is still, such as he was always. And of a 
comely presence, with a rosy cheek and bright eyes, and the 
strength of a young David, as well as his ruddy and goodly 
countenance. The name of David, I am told, means dar- 
ling. Therefore ought my Eobin to have been named David. 
There were two other boys — Barnaby, my brother, who was six 
years older than myself, and therefore always a great boy; and 
Benjamin, the son of the Eev. Mr. Boscorel, the rector. Barna- 
by grew up so broad and strong that at twelve he would have 
passed easily for seventeen; his square shoulders, deep chest, 
and big limbs made him like a bull for strength. Yet he was 


26 


FOB FAITH AHD FEEEDOM. 


shorter than most^ and looked shorter than he was by reason 
of his great breadth. He was always exercising his strength; 
he would toss the hay with the haymakers, and carry the corn 
for the reapers, and thresh with the flail, and guide the plow. 
He loved to climb great trees, and to fell them with an ax. 
Everybody in the village admired his wonderful strength. 
Unfortunately, he loved not books, and could never learn any- 
thing, so that when, by dint of great application and many 
repetitions, he had learned a little piece of a Latin verb, he 
straightway forgot it in the night, and so next day there was 
another flogging. But that he heeded little. He was flve 
years older than Eobin, and taught him all his woodcraft — 
where to And pheasants^ eggs, how to catch squirrels, how to 
trap weasels and stoats, how to hunt the otter, how to make a 
goldflnch whistle and a raven talk; never was there such a 
master of that wisdom which doth not advance a man in the 
world. 

How, before Barnaby’s birth, his mother, after the manner 
of Hannah, gave him solemnly unto the Lord all the days of 
his life; and after his birth her husband, after the manner of 
Elkanah, said: Do what seemeth thee good; only the Lord 
establish his word. He was, therefore, to become a minister, 
like his father before him. Alas! poor Barnaby could not even 
learn the Latin verbs, and his heart, it was found as he grew 
older, was wholly set upon the things of this world. Where- 
fore, my mother prayed for him daily while she sat at her 
work, that his heart might be turned, and that he might get 
understanding. 

As for the fourth of the boys, Benjamin Boscorel, he was 
about two years younger than Barnaby, a boy who, for want 
of a mother, and because his father was careless of him, grew 
up rough and coarse in manners and in speech, and boastful of 
his powers. To hear Ben talk you would think that all the 
boys of his school (the grammar-school of Sherborne) were 
heroes; that the Latin taught was of a quality superior to that 
which Eobin and Humphrey learned of my father, and that 
when he himself went out into the world the superiority of his 
parts would be immediately perceived and acknowledged. 

Those who watch boys at play together — gMs more early 
learn to govern themselves and to conceal their thoughts, if 
not their tempers — may, after a manner, predict the future 
character of every one. There is the man who wants all for 
himself, and still wants more, and will take all and yield noth- 
ing, save on compulsion, and cares not a straw about his neigh- 
bor — such was Benjamin as a boy. There is the man who gives 


rOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


27 

all generously — such was Eobin. There is, again, the man 
whose mind is raised above the petty cares of the multitude, 
and dwells apart, occupied with great thoughts — such was 
Humphrey. Lastly, there is the man who can act but can not 
think; who is born to be led; who is full of courage and of 
strength, and leaves all to his commander, captain, or master 
— such was Barnaby. 

As I think of these lads it seems as if the kind of man into 
which each would grow must have been stamped upon their 
foreheads. Perhaps to the elders this prognostic was easy to 
read. 

They suffered me to play with them or to watch them at 
play. When the boys went off to the woods I went with them. 
I watched them set their traps — I ran ^when they ran. And 
then, as now, I loved Eobin and Humphrey. But I could not 
endure — no, not even the touch of him — Benjamin, with the 
loud laugh and the braggart voice, who laughed at me because 
I was a girl and could not fight. The time came when he did 
not laugh at me because I was a girl. And, oh, to think — 
only to think — of the time that came after that! 


CHAPTEE IV. 

SIR CHRISTOPHER. 

At the mere remembrance of Sir Christopher I am fain to 
lay down my pen and to weep, as for one whose goodness was 
unsurpassed, and whose end was undeserved. Good works, I 
know, are rags, and men can not deserve the mercy of God by 
any merits of their own; but a good man — a man whose heart 
is full of justice, mercy, virtue, and truth — is so rare a creat- 
ure that when there is found such a one his salvation seems 
assured. Is it not wonderful that there are among us so many 
good Christians, but so few good men? I am, indeed, in pri- 
vate duty bound to acknowledged Sir Christopher^'s goodness 
to me and to mine. He was, as I have said, the mainstay of 
our household. Had we depended wholly on my mother^s 
work, we should sometimes have fared miserably indeed. Nay, 
he did more. Though a justice of the peace, he invited my 
father every Sunday evening to the Manse-house for spiritual 
conversation, not only for his own profit, but knowing that to 
expound was to my father the breath of his nostrils, so that if 
he could not expound he must die. In person Sir Christo- 
pher was' tall; after the fashion (which I love) of the days 
when he was a young man he wore his own hair, which, being 


28 


FOR FAITH AKD FREEDOM. 


now white and long, became his venerable face much better 
than any wig — white, black, or brown. He was generally 
dressed, as became his station of simple country gentleman, in 
a plush coat with silver buttons, and for the most part he wore 
boots, being of an active habit, and always walking about his 
fields or in his gardens among his flowers and his fruit-trees. 
He was so good a sportsman that with his rod, his gun, and 
his hawk he provided his table with everything except beef, 
mutton, and pork. In religion he inclined to independency, 
being, above all things, an upholder of private judgment; in 
politics he denied the Divine right, and openly said that a 
Challis might be a king as well as a Stuart; he abhorred the 
pope and all his works; and though he was now for a mon- 
archy, he would have the king’s own power limited by the Par- 
liament. In his manners he was grave and dignified, not aus- 
tere, but one who loved a cheerful companion. He rode once 
a week, on market-day, to Sherborne, where he dined with his 
brother justices, hearing and discussing the news, though news 
comes but slowly from London to these parts — it was fourteen 
days after the landing of the king in the year 1660 that the 
bells of Sherborne Minster rang for that event. Sometimes a 
copy of the London Gazette ” came down by the Exeter 
coach, or some of the company had lately passed a night where 
the coach stopped, and conversed with travelers from London 
and heard the news. For the rest of the week his honor was 
at home. For the most part he sat in the hall. In the mid- 
dle stands the great oak table where all the household sit at 
meals together. There was little difference between the dishes 
served above and those below the salt, save that those above 
had each a glass of strong ale or of wine after dinner and sup- 
per. One side of the hall was hung with arras worked with 
representations of herbs, beasts, and birds. On the other side 
was the great chimney, where in the winter a noble fire was 
kept up all day long. On either side of it hung fox-skins, 
otter-skins, polecat-skins, with fishing-rods, stags’ heads, horns, 
and other trophies of the chase. At the end was a screen 
covered with old coats of mail, helmets, bucklers, lances, pikes, 
pistols, guns with matchlocks, and a trophy of swords arranged 
in form of a star. Below the cornice hung a row of leathern 
jerkins, black and dusty, which had formerly been worn in 
place of armor by the common sort. In the oriel window was 
a sloping desk, having on one side the Bible, and on the other 
Fox’s ‘‘Book of Martyrs.” Below was a shelf with other 
books, such as Vincent Wing’s “ Almanack,” King Charles’s 
‘‘ Golden Rules,” “ Glanville on Apparitions,” the “ Complete 


EOR FAITH AKD FREEDOM. 


29 


Justice/^ and the Book of Farriery. There was also in the 
hall a great sideboard covered with Turkey work, pewter, 
brass, and fine linen. In the cupboard below was his honoris 
plate, reported to be worth a great deal of money. 

Sir Christopher sat in a high chair, curiously carved, with 
arms and a triangular seat. It had belonged to the family for 
many generations. Within reach of the chair was the tobacco- 
jar, his pipe, ajid his favorite book — namely, The Gentle- 
man’s Academic; or, the Book of St. Albans, being a Work 
on Hunting, Hawking, and Armorie,’’ by Dame Juliana Ber- 
ners, who wrote it two hundred and fifty years ago. Sir Chris- 
topher loved especially to read aloud a chapter in which it was 
proved that the distinction between gentleman and churl began 
soon after the creation, when Cain proved himself a churl, and 
Seth was created gentleman and esquire or armiger by Adam, 
his father. This distinction was renewed after the fiood by 
Noah himself, a gentleman by lineal descent from Seth. In 
the case of his sons. Ham was the churl, and the other two 
were the gentlemen. I have sometimes thought that, accord- 
ing to this author, all of us who are descended from Shem or 
Japhet should be gentlemen, in which case there would be no 
churl in Great Britain at all. But certainly there are many; 
so that, to my poor thinking. Dame Juliana Berners must be 
wrong. 

There is, in addition to the great hall, the best parlor; but 
as tliis was never wanted, the door of it was never opened ex- 
cept at cleaning time. Then, to be sure, one saw a room fur- 
nished very grand, with chairs in Turkey work, and hung 
round with family portraits. The men were clad in armor, as 
if they had all been soldiers or commanders; the women were 
mostly dressed as shepherdesses, with crooks in their hands 
and fiowing robes. In the garden was a long bowling-green, 
where in summer Sir Christopher took great pleasure in that 
ancient game; below the garden was a broad fish-pond, made 
by damming the stream; above and below the pond there are 
trout, and in the pond are carp and jack. A part of the gar- 
den was laid out for flowers, a part for the still-room, and a 
part for fruit. I have never seen anywhere a better ordered 
garden for the still-room. Everything grew therein that the 
housewife wants — sweet cicely, rosemary, burnet, sweet basil, 
chives, dill, clary, angelica, lipwort, tarragon, thyme, and mint; 
there were, as Lord Bacon, in his Essay on Gardens,” would 
have, whole alleys of them to have the pleasure when you 
walk or tread.” There were thick hedges to keep off the east 
wind in spring, so that one would enjoy the sun when that 


30 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


cold wind was blowing. But in Somerset that wind hath not 
the bitterness that it possesses along the eastern shores of the 
land. 

Every morning Sir Christopher sat in his justice's chair 
under the helmets and the coats of armor. Sometimes gypsies 
would be brought before him charged with stealing poultry or 
poisoning pigs, or a rogue and vagabond would stray into the 
parish; these gentry were very speedily whipped out of it. As 
for our own people, there is nowhere a more quiet and orderly 
village; quarrels there are with the clothiers^ men, who will 
still try to beat down the value of the women^s work, and 
bickerings sometimes between the women themselves. Sir 
Christopher was judge for all. Truly he was a patriarch like 
unto Abraham, and a father to his people. Never was sick 
man suffered to want for medicines and succor; never was aged 
man suffered to lack food and fire; did any youth show lean- 
ings toward sloth, profligacy, or drunkenness, he was straight- 
way admonished, and that right soundly, so that his back and 
shoulders would remind him for many days of his sin. By 
evil-doers Sir Christopher was feared as much as he was be- 
loved by all good men and true. This also is proper to one in 
high station and authority. 

In the evening he amused himself in playing backgammon 
with the boys, or chess with his son-in-law, Mr. Boscorel; but 
the latter with less pleasure, because he was generally defeated 
in the game. He greatly delighted in the conversation and 
society of that learned and ingenious gentleman, though on 
matters of religion and of politics his son-in-law belonged to 
the opposite way of thinking. 

I do not know why Mr. Boscorel took upon himself Holy 
Orders. God forbid "that I should speak ill of any in authority, 
and especially of one who was kind and charitable to all, and 
refused to become a persecutor of those who desired freedom 
of conscience and of speech. But if the chief duty of a minis- 
ter of the Gospel is to preach, then was Mr. Boscorel little bet- 
ter than a dog who can not bark. He did not preach; that is 
to say, he could not, like my father, mount the pulpit, Bible 
in hand, and teach, admonish, argue, and convince without a 
written word. He read every Sunday morning a brief dis- 
course, which might, perhaps, have instructed Oxford scholars, 
but would not be understood by the common people. As for 
arguments on religion, spiritual conversation, or personal ex- 
perience of grace, he would never suffer such talk in his pres- 
ence, because it argued private judgment and caused, he said. 


FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. 


31 


the gTOwfch of spiritual pride. And of those hot Gospellers^ 
whose zeal brings them to prison and the pillory, he spoke with 
contempt. His conyersation, I must acknowledge, was full of 
delight and instruction, if the things which one learned of him 
were not vanities. He had traveled in Italy and in France, 
and he loved to talk of poetry, architecture, statuary, medals 
and coins, antiquities, and so forth — things harmless and, per- 
haps, laudable in themselves, but for a preacher of the Gospel, 
who ought to think of nothing bufc his sacred calling, they are 
surely superfluities. Or he would talk of the manners and 
customs of strange countries, and especially of the Pope. This 
person, whom I have been taught to look upon as, from the 
very nature of his pretensions, the most wicked pt living men, 
Mr. Boscorel regarded with as much toleration as he bestowed 
upon an Independent. Thus he would tell us of London and 
the manners of the great; cf the king, whom he had seen, and 
the court, seeming to wink at things which one ought to hold 
in abhorrence. He even told us of the play-house, which ac- 
cording to my father, is the most subtle engine ever invented 
by the devil for the destruction of souls. Yet Mr. Boscorel 
sighed to think that he could no longer visit that place of 
amusement. He loved also music, and played movingly upon 
the violoncello; and he could make pictures with pen, pencil, 
or brush. I have some of his paintings still, especially a pict- 
ure which he drew of Humphrey playing the fiddle, his great 
eyes looking upward, as if the music was drawing his soul to 
heaven. I know not why he painted a halo about his face. 
Mr. Boscorel also loved poetry, and quoted Shakespeare and 
Ben Jonson more readily than the Word of God# 

In person he was of a goodly countenance, having clear-cut 
features, a straight nose, rather long, soft eyes, and a gentle 
voice. He was dainty in his apparel, loving fine clean linen 
and laced neckerchiefs, but was not a gross feeder; he drank 
but little wine, but would discourse upon fine wines, such as 
the Tokay of Hungary, Oommandery wine from Cyprus, and 
the like, and he seemed better pleased to watch the color of 
the wine in the glass, and to breathe its perfume, than to drink 
ifc. Above all things, he hated coarse speech and rude man- 
ners. He spoke of men as if he stood on an eminence watch- 
ing them, and always with pity, as if he belonged to a nobler 
creation. How could such a man have such a son? 


32 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


CHAPTEE V. 

THE RUNAWAY. 

Everybody hath heard, and old people still remember, 
how one act after the other was passed for the suppression of 
the Non-conformists, whom the Church of England tried to 
extirpate, but could not. Had these laws been truly carried 
into effect, there would have been great suffering among the 
Dissenters, but in order to enforce them every man^s hand 
would have been turned against his neighbor, and this — thank 
God — is not possible in Somerset. 

For example, the Act of Uniformity provided not only for 
the ejectment of the Non-conforming ministers, which was duly 
carried out, but also enacted that none of them should take 
scholars without the license of the bishop. Yet many of the 
ejected ministers maintained themselves in this way, openly, 
without the bishop^s license. They were not molested, though 
they might be threatened by some hot Episcopalian, nor were 
the bishops anxious to set the country afire by attempting to 
enforce this law. One must not take from an honest neigh- 
bor, whatever an unjust law may command, his only way of 
living. 

Again the act passed two years later punished all persons 
with fine and imprisonment who attended conventicles. Yet 
the conventicles continued to be held over the whole country, 
because it was impossible for the justices to fine and imprison 
men with whom they sat at dinner every market-day, with 
whom they took their punch and tobacco, and whom they 
knew to be honest and God-fearing folk. Again, how could 
they fine and imprison their own flesh and blood? Why, in 
every family there were some who loved the meeting-house 
better than the steeple-house. Laws have little power when 
they are against the conscience of the people. 

Thirdly, there was an act prohibiting ministers from re- 
siding within five miles of the village or town where they had 
preached. This was a most cruel and barbarous act, because 
it sent the poor ministers away from the help of their friends. 
Yet how was it regarded? My father, for his part, continued 
to live at Bradford Orcas without let or hinderance, and so, no 
doubt, did many more. 

Again, another act was passed giving authority to justices 
of the peace to break open doors and to take in custody per- 


FOR i'AITH AND FREEDOM. 


33 


sons foxmd assembling for worship. I have heard of disturb- 
ances at Taunton, where the magistrates carried things with a 
high hand, but I think the j^eople who met to worship after 
their own fashion were little disturbed. Among the church- 
men were some, no doubt, who remembered the snubs and 
rubs they had themselves experienced, and the memory may 
have made them revengeful. All the prosecution, it is certain, 
was not on the side of the Church. There was, for instance, 
the case of Dr. Walter Ealeigh, Dean of Wells, who was clapped 
into a noisome prison where the plague had broken out. He 
did not die of that disease, but was done to death in the jail, 
barbarously, by one David Barret, shoe-maker, who was never 
punished for the murder, but was afterward made constable of 
the city. There was also the case of the Eev. Dr. Piers, whom 
I have myself seen, for he lived to a good old age. He was a 
Prebendary of Wells, and, being driven forth, was compelled 
to turn farmer, and to work with his own hands — digging, 
hoeing, plowing, reaping, and threshing — when he should 
have been in his study. Every week this reverend and learned 
doctor of divinity was to be seen at Ilminster Market, stand- 
ing beside the pillars with his cart, among the farmers and 
their wives, selling his apples, cheese and cabbages. 

I say that no doubt many remembered these things. Yet 
the affection of the people went forth to the Non-conformists 
and the ejected ministers, as was afterward but too well 
proved. I have been speaking of things which happened be- 
fore my recollection. It was in the year 1665, four years after 
the Ejection, that I was born. My father named me Grace 
Abounding, but I have never been called by any other name 
than my first. I was thus six years younger than my brother 
Barnaby, and two years younger than Kobin and Humphrey. 

The first thing that I can recollect is a kind of picture, pre- 
served, so to speak, in my head. At the open door is a woman 
spinning at the wheel. She is a woman with a pale, grave 
face; she works diligently, and for the most part in silence; 
if she speaks it is to encourage or to admonish a little girl who 
plays in the garden outside. Her lips move as she works, be- 
cause she communes with her thoughts all day long. From 
time to time she turns her head and looks with anxiety into 
the other room, where sits her husband at his table. 

Before him stand three boys. They are Barnaby, Eobin, 
and Humphrey. They are learning Latin. The room is piled 
with books on shelves and books on the floor. In the corner 
is a pallet, which is the mastery’s bed by night. I hear the 
voices of the boys who repeat their lessons, and the admonish- 


84 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 

ing of their master. I can see through the open door the boys 
themselves. One, a stout and broad lad, is my brother Bar- 
naby; he hangs his head and forgets his lesson, and causes his 
father to punish him every day. He receives admonition with 
patience, yet profiteth nothing. The next is Humphrey; he 
is already a lad of grave and modest carriage, who loves his 
book and learns diligently. The third is Eobin, whose parts 
are good, were his application eqral to his intelligence. He is 
impatient, and longs for the time when he may close his book 
and go to play again. 

Poor Barnaby! at the sight of a Latin grammar he would 
feel sick. He would willingly have taken a flogging every dav 
— to be sure, that generally happened to him — in order to es- 
cape his lessons and be off to the 5 elds and woods. 

It was the sight of his rueful face — ^yet never sad except at 
lessons — which made my mother sigh when she saw him dull 
but patient over his book. Had he stayed at home I know not 
what could have been done with him, seeing that to become a 
preacher of the Gospel was beyond even the power of prayer, 
the Lord having clearly expressed. His will in this matter. Ha 
would have had to clap on a leathern apron, and become a 
wheelwright or blacksmith, nothing better than an honest trade 
v/as possible for him. 

But whether happily or not, a strange whim seized the boy 
when he was fourteen years of age. He would go to sea. 
How he came to think of the sea I know not; he had never 
seen the sea; there were no sailors in the village; there was 
no talk of the sea. Perhaps Humphrey, who read many 
books, told him of the great doings of our sailors on the 
Spanish Main and elsewhere. Perhaps some of the clothiers^ 
men, who are a roving and unsettled crew, had been sailors — 
some, I know, had beeii soldiers under Oliver. However, this 
matters not — Barnaby must needs become a sailor. 

When first he broke this resolution, which he did secretly, 
to my mother, she began to weep and lament, because every- 
body knows how dreadful is the life of a sailor, and how full 
of dangers. She begged him to put the thought out of his 
head, and to apply himself again to his boks. 

Mother, he said, it is no use. What comes in at one 
ear goes out at the .other. Nothing sticks; I shall never be a 
scholar.'’^ 

Then, my son, learn an honest trade. 

What? Become the village cobbler — or the blacksmith? 
Go hat in hand to his honor, when my father should have been 
a bishop, and my mother is a gentlewoman? That will I not. 


FOR FAITH AKD FREEDOM. 


35 


I will go and be a sailor. All sailors are gentlemen. I shall 
rise and become first mate, and then second captain, and lastly 
captain in command. Who knows? I may go and fight the 
Spaniard, if I am lucky. 

Oh, my son, canst thou not stay at home and go to 
church, and consider the condition of thine immortal soul? 
Of sailors it is well known that their language is made up of 
profane oaths, and that they are all profligates and drunkards. 
Consider, my son — my mother laid her hand upon his arm — 
‘ ^ what were Heaven to me if I have not my dear children with 
me as well as my husband? How could I praise the Lord if I 
were thinking of my son who was not with me, but — ah! 
Heaven forbid the thought 

Barnaby made no reply. What could he say in answer to 
my mother^s tears? Yet I think she must have understood 
very well that her son, having got this resolution into his head, 
would never give it up. 

she said, ^^when thou wast a little baby in my 
arms, Barnaby, who art now so big and strong — she looked 
at him with the wonder and admiration that women feel when 
their sons grow big and stout — I prayed that God would 
accept thee as an offering for His service. Thou art vowed 
unto the Lord, my son, as much as Samuel. Do you think 
he complained of his lessons? What would have happened, 
think you, to Samuel if he had taken off his ephod, and de- 
clared that he would serve no longer at the altar, but must 
take speaj* and shield, and go to fight the Amalekite?^^ 

Said Barnaby in reply, speaking from an unregenerate 
heart: ^‘Mother, had I been Samuel, to wear an ephod and 
to learn the Latin syntax every day, I should have done that. 
Ay, I would have done it, even if I knew that at the first 
skirmish an arrow would pierce my heart. 

It was after a great flogging, on account of the passive voice 
or some wrestling with the syntax, that Barnaby plucked up 
courage to tell his father what he wished to do. 

With my consent,''^ said my father, sternly, thou shalt 
never become a sailor. As soon would I send thee to become 
a buffoon in a play-house. Never dare to speak of it again. 

Barnaby hung his head and said nothing. 

Then my mother, who knew his obstinate disposition, took 
him to Sir Christopher, who chid him roundly, telling him 
that there' was work for him on land, else he would have been 
born beside the coast, where the lads take naturally to the 
sea; that being, as he was, only an ignorant boy and land- 
born, he could not know the dangers which he would en- 


36 


POR FAITH AKD FREEDOM. 


counter; that some ships are cast away on desert islands, 
where the survivors remain in misery until they die, and some 
on lands where savages devour them, and some are dragged 
down by calamaries and other dreadful monsters, and some 
are burned at sea, their crews having to choose miserably be- 
tween burning and drowning, and some are taken by the 
enemy, and the sailors clapped into dungeons and tortured by 
the accursed Inquisition. 

Many more things did Sir Christopher set forth, showing 
the miserable life and the wretched end of the sailor. But 
BaiTiaby never changed countenance, and though my mother 
bade him note this and mark that and take heed unto his 
honoris words his face showed no melting. ^Twas always an 
obstinate lad; nay, it was his obstinacy alone which kept him 
from his learning. Otherwise he might perhaps have become 
as great a scholar as Humphrey. 

Sir,^^ he said, when Sir Christopher had no other word to 
say, with submission I would still choose to be a sailor, if I 
could. 

In the end he obtained his wish. That is to say, since no 
one would help him toward it, he helped himself. And this, 
I think, is the only way in which men do ever get what they 
want. 

It happened one evening that there passed through the 
village a man with a pipe and tabor, on which he played so 
movingly that all the people turned out to listen. For my 
own part, I was with my mother, yet I ran to the garden gate 
and leaned my head over, drawn by the sound of the music. 
Presently the boys and girls began to take hands and to dance. 
I dare not say that to dance is sinful, because David danced. 
But it was so regarded by my father, so that when he passed 
by them on his way home from taking the aii*, and actually 
saw his Own son Barnaby in the middle of the dancers, footing 
it with them all, leading one girl up and the other down at 
John, come and hiss me notv, he was seized with a mighty 
wrath, and catching his son sharply by the ear, led him out of 
the throng, and so home. For that evening Barnaby went 
supperless to bed, with the promise of such a flogging in the 
morning as would cause him to remember for the rest of his 
life the sinfulness of dancing. Never had I seen my father so 
angry. I trembled before his wrathful eyes. But Barnaby 
faced him with steady looks, making answer none, yet not 
showing the least repentance or fear. I thought it was be- 
cause a flogging had no terrors for him. The event proved 
that I was wrong, for when he awoke in the morning he was 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


37 . 


gone. He had cre23t down-stairs in the night; he ha^ taken 
half a loaf of bread and a great cantle of soft cheese, and had 
gone away. I knew for my part very well that he had not 
gone for fear of the rod; he had ran away with design to go to 
sea. Perhaps he had gone to Bristol; perhaps to Plymouth; 
perhaps to Lyme. My mother wept, and my father sighed, 
and for ten years more we neither saw nor heard anything of 
Barnaby, not even whether he was dead or living. 


OHAPTEE VI. 

BENJAMIN, LORD CHANCELLOR. 

Summer follows winter, and winter summer, in due course, 
turning children into young men and maidens, changing school 
into work, and play into love, and love into marriage, and so 
onward to the church-yard, where we all presently lie, hopeful 
of Heaven ^s mercy, whether Mr. Boscorel did stand beside our 
open grave in his white surplice, or my father in his black 
gown. 

Barnaby was gope; the other three grew tall, and would 
still be talking of the lives before them. Girls do never look 
forward to the future with the eagerness and joy of boys. To 
the dullest boy it seems a fine thing to be master of his own 
actions, even if that liberty lead to whipping-post, pillory or 
gallows. To boys of ambition and imagination the gifts of 
Fortune show like the splendid visions of a prophet. They 
think that earthly fame will satisfy the soul. Perhaps women 
see these glories and their true worth with clearer eye as not 
desiring them. And truly it seems a small thing, after a life 
spent in arduous toil, and with one foot already in the grave, 
to obtain fortune, rank or title. 

Benjamin and Humphrey were lads .of ambition. To them, 
but in fields which lay far apart, the best life seemed to b( 
that which is spent among men on the ant-hill where all are 
driving and being driven, loading each other with burdens 
intolerable or with wealth or with honors, and then dying anci 
being forgotten in a moment — which we call London. In the 
kindly country one stands apart and sees the vanity of human 
wishes. Yet the ambition of Humphrey, it must be confessed, 
was noble, because it was not for his own advancement, bui 
for the good of mankind. 

I shall stay at home,^^ said Robin. You two may go if 
you please. Perhaps you will like the noise of London where 
a man can not hear himself speak, they say, for the roaring of 


38 


FOB FAITH AND FEEEDOM. 


the crowd, the ringing of the bells, and the rumbling of the 
carts. As for me, what is good enough for my grandfather 
will be surely good enough for me. 

It should, indeed, be good enough for anybody to spend his 
days after the manner of Sir Christopher, administering justice 
for the villagers, with the weekly ordinary at Sherborne for 
company, the green fields and his garden for pleasure and for 
exercise, and the welfare of his soul for prayer. Eobin, be- 
sides, loved to go forth with hawk and gun; to snare the wild 
creatures; to hunt the otter and the fox; to bait the badger, 
and trap the stoat and weasel; to course the hares. But cities 
and crowds, even if they should be shouting in his honor, did 
never draw him, even after he had seen them. Nor was he 
ever tempted to believe any manner of life more full of delight 
and more consistent with the end of man^s creation than the 
rural life, the air of the fields, the following of the plow for 
the men, and the spinning-wheel for the women. 

I shall be a lawyer, said Benjamin, puffing out his cheeks 
and squaring his shoulders. Very well, then, I shall be a 
great lawyer. What? None of your pettifogging tribe for 
me; I shall step to the front, and stay there. What? Some 
one must have the prizes and the promotion. There are al- 
ways places falling vacant and honors to be given away; they 
shall be given to me. Why not to me as well as another?^^ 

Well,^^ said Eobin, you are strong enough to take them, 
willy-nilly. 

am strong enough,^’ he replied, with conviction. 

First, I shall be called to the Outer Bar, where I shall 
plead in stuff — I saw them at Exeter last ^Sizes. Next, I 
shall be summoned to become king^s counsel, when I shall 
flaunt it in silk. Who but I?’^ Then he seemed to grow 
actually three inches taller, so great is the power of imagi- 
nation. He was already six feet in height, his shoulders 
broad, and his face red and fiery, so that now he looked very 
big and tall. Then my Inn will make me a bencher, and I 
shall sit at the high table in term-time. And the attorneys 
shall run after me and fight with each other for my services in 
court, so that in every great case I shall be heard thundering 
before the jury, and making the witnesses perjure themselves 
with terror — ^for which they will be afterward flogged. I shall 
belong to the king’s party — none of your canting Whigs for 
me. When the high-treason cases come on I shall be the 
counsel for the Crown. That is the high-road to advance- 
ment.’^ 


FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. 39 

This is very well so far/^ said Robin, laughing. Ben is 
too modest, however. He does not get on fast enough.'’^ 

All in good time,^"" Ben replied. I mean to get on as 
fast as anybody. But I shall follow the beaten road. First, 
favor with attorneys and those who have suits in the courts, 
then the ear of the judge. I know not how one gets the ear 
of the judge — he looked despondent for a moment, then he 
held up his head again — “ but I shall find out. Others have 
found out — why not I? What? I am no fool, am 

Certainly not, Ben. But as yet we stick at king^s 
counsel. 

After the ear of the judge, the favor of the Crown. What 
do l care who is king? It is the king who hath preferment 
and place and honors in his gift. Where these are given away 
there shall I be found. Next am I made sergeant-at-law. 
Then I am saluted as ^ Brother ^ by the judges on the bench, 
while all the others burst with envy. After that I shall my- 
self be called to the bench. I am already ‘ my lord ’ — why 
do you laugh, Robin? — and a knight; Sir Benjamin Boscorel — 
Sir Benjamin. Here he puffed out his cheeks again and 
swung his shoulders like a very great person indeed. 

ftoceed. Sir Benjamin, said Humphrey, gravely, while 
Robin laughed. 

When I am a judge I promise you I will rate the barris- 
ters and storm at the witnesses and admonish the jury until 
there shall be no other question in their minds but to find out 
first what is my will in the case, and then to govern them- 
selves accordingly. I will be myself judge and jury and all. 
Oh, I have seen the judge at last Exeter ^ Sizes. He made all 
to shake in their shoes. I shall not stop there. Chief baron 
I shall be, perhaps, but on that point I have not yet made up 
my mind, an<f then lord chancellor. He paused to take 
breath, and looked around him, grandeur and authority upon 
his brow. Lord chancellor, he repeated, ‘‘on the wool- 
sack. 

“ You will then,’^ said Robin, “ be raised to. the peerage — 
first Lord Boscorel, or perhaps, if your lordship will so honor 
this poor village. Lord Bradford Orcas. 

“ Earl of Sherborne I have chosen for title,^^ said Benja- 
min. “ And while I am climbing up the ladder where wilt 
thou be, Humphrey? Groveling in the mud with the ''poor 
devils who can not rise?^^ 

“ Nay, I shall have a small ladder of my own, Ben. I find 
great comfort in the thought that when your lordship is roar- 
ing and bawling with the gout, your noble toe being like a ball 


40 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 

of fire and your illustrious foot swathed in flannel, I shall be ^ 
called upon to drive away the pain, and you will honor me 
with the title, not only of humble cousin, but also of rescuer 
and preserver. Will it not be honor enough to cure the Eight 
Honorable the Earl of Sherborne, first of the name, the lord 
chancellor, of his gout, and to restore him to the duties of his 
great office, so that once more he shall be the dread of evil- 
doers, and of all who have to appear before him? As yet, my 
lord, your extremities, I perceive, are free from that disease, 
the result, too often, of that excess in wine which besets the 
great. 

so did Benjamin. Hobody 
iphrey, if he pleased. 

To wear a black velvet 
coat and a great wig; to carry a gold-headed cane; all day 
long to listen while the patient tells of his gripes and pains; 
to mix boluses ^nd to compound nauseous draughts. 

Well,''^ Humphrey laughed, if you are lord chancellor, 
Ben, you will, I hope, give us good laws, aiid so make the 
nation happy and prosperous. While you are doing this, I 
will be keeping you in health for the good of the country. I 
say that this is a fine ambition. 

And Eobin here will sit in the great chair, and have the 
rogues haled before him, and order the head-borough to bring 
out his cat-0 ^-nine- tails. In the winter evenings he will play 
backgammon, and in the summer bowls. Then a posset, and 
to bed. And never any change from year to year. A fine 
life, truly. 

Truly I think it is a very fine life,^"" said Eobin; while 
you make the laws I will take care that they are obeyed W^hat 
better service is there than to cause good laws^to be obeyed? 
Make good laws, my lord chancellor, and be thankful that you 
will have faithful, law-abiding men to carry them out. 

Thus they talked. Presently the time came when the lads 
must leave the village, and go forth to prepare for such course 
as should be allotted to them, whether it led to greatness or to 
obscurity. 

Benjamin went first, being sixteen years of age, and a great 
fellow, as I have said — broad-shouldered and lusty, with a red 
face, a strong voice, and a loud laugh. In no respect did he 
resemble his father, who was delicate in manner and in 
speech. He was to be entered at Gray^s Inn, where, under 
some counsel learned in the law, he was to read until such 
time as he should be called. 


Here Eobin laughed again, and 
could use finer language than Hu] 
A fine ambition, said Ben. 


FOB FAITH AHD FREEDOM. 41 

He came to bid me farewell, which at .first, until he fright- 
ened me with the things he said, I took kindly of him. 

Child, he said, I am going to London, and, I suppose, 
I shall not come back to this village for a long time. Nay, 
were it not for thee, I should not wish to come back at all.'^'' 
Why for me, Ben?^^ 

Because — here his red face became redder, and he stam- 
mered a little, but not much, for he was ever a lad of confi- 
dence— because, child, thou art not yet turned twelve, 
which is young to be hearing of such a thing. Yet a body 
may as well make things safe. And as for Humphrey or 
Eobin interfering, I will break their heads with my cudgel if 
they do. Eemember that then. He shook his finger at me, 
threatening. 

In what business should they interfere?^^ I asked. 

Kiss me, Grace — here he tried to lay his arm round my 
neck, but I ran away. ‘‘ Oh, if thou art skittish I care not; 
all in good time. Very well, then; let us make things safe. 
Grace, when I come back thou wilt be seventeen or eighteen, 
which is an age when girls should marry — 

I will have nothing to do with marrying, Ben.^^ 

Not yet. If I mistake not, child, thou wilt then be as* 
beautiful as a rose in June.""^ 

I want no foolish talk, Ben. Let me go.^^ 
l^ien I shall be twenty-one years of age, practicing in the 
courts. I shall go the Western Circuit, in order to see thee 
often — ^partly to keep an eye upon thee and partly to warn off 
other men. Because, child, it is my purpose to marry thee 
myself. Think upon that, now. 

At this I laughed. 

Laugh, if you please, my dear; I shall marry thee as soon 
as the way is open to the bench and the woolsack. What? I 
can see a long way ahead. I tell thee what I see. There is a 
monstrous great crowd of people in the street staring at a glass 
coach. ‘ Who is the lovely lady?^ they ask. ^ The lovely 
lady ^ — that is you, Grace; none other — ^ with the diamonds 
at her neck and the gold chain, in the glass coach ?^ says one 
who knows her liveries; ^ ^tis the lady of the great lord chan- 
cellor, the Earl of Sherborne.^ And the women fall green 
with envy of her happiness and great good-fortune and her 
splendor. Courage, child; I go to prepare the way. Oh, 
thou knowest not the grand things that I shall pour into thy 
lap when I am a judge. 

Tills was the first time that any man spoke to me of love. 
JBut Benjamin was always masterful, and had no respect for 


42 


FOR FAITH AKD FREEDOM. 


such a nice point as the wooing of a maiden— which, methinks, 
should be gentle and respectful, not as if a woman was lik$ a 
savage to be tempted by a string of beads, or so foolish as to 
desire with her husband such gawds as diamonds, or gold 
chains, or a glass coach. Nor doth a woman like to be treated 
as if she was to be carried off by force like the Sabine women 
of old. 

. The rector rode to London with his son. It is a long jour- 
fney, over rough ways, but it pleased him once more to see 
""that great city where there are pictures and statues and books 
to gladden the hearts of such as love these things. And on 
the way home he sojourned for a few days at his old college of 
All-Souls, where were still left one or two of his old friends. 
Then he rode back to his village. “ There are but two places 
in this country, he said, or perhaps three, at most, where 
a gentleman and a scholar, or one who loveth the fine arts, 
would choose to live. They are London and Oxford, and per- 
haps the sister university upon the Granta. Well, I have once 
more been privileged to witness the humors of the court and 
the town; I have once more been permitted to sniff the air of 
a great library. Let us be thankful. He showed his thank- 
fulness with a sigh which was almost a groan. 

It was three years before we saw Benjamin again. Then he 
returned, but not for long. Like his father, he loved London 
better than the country, but for other reasons. Certainly he 
cared nothing for those arts which so much delighted the 
rector, and the air of a coffee-house pleased him more than 
the perfume of books in a library. "When he left us he was a 
rustic, when he came back he was already what they call a 
fopling; that is to say, when he went to pay his respects to 
Sir Christopher, his grandfather, he wore a very fine cravat of 
Flanders lace, with silken hose, and lace and ribbons at his 
wrist. He was also scented with bergamot, and wore a peruke, 
which, while he talked, he combed afid curled, to keep the 
curls of this monstrous head-dress in place. Gentlemen must, 
I suppose, wear this invention, and one of the learned pro- 
fessions must show the extent of the learning by the splendors 
of his full-bottomed wig. Yet I think that a young man 
looks most comely while he wears his own hair. He had 
cocked his hat, on which were bows, and he wore a sword. 
He spoke also in a mincing London manner, having forsworn 
the honest broad speech of Somerset, and, but not in the 
-presence of his elders, he used strange oaths and ejaculations. 

‘‘Behold him!^^ said his father, by no means displeased at 
his son^s foppery, because he ever loved the city fashions, and 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


43 


thought that a young man did well to dress and to comport 
himself after the way of the world. ‘‘ Behold him! Thus he 
sits in the coJffee-house; thus he shows himself in the pit. 
Youth is the time for finery and for folly. Alas! would that 
we could bring back that time. What saith John Dryden — 
glorious John — or Sir Fopling: 

“ * His various modes from various fashions follow; 

One taught the toss, and one the new French wallow; 

His sword-knot this, his cravat that, designed, 

And this the yard-long snake he twirls behind. 

From one the sacred periwig he gained, 

Which wind ne’er blew, nor touch of hat profaned.’ ” 

Well, Ben/^ said Sir Christopher, if the mode'^can help 
thee to the bench why not follow the mode?^^ 

It will not hinder, sir,^^ Ben replied. A man who hath 
his fortune to make does well to be seen everywhere, and to be 
dressed like other men of his time.-^^ 

One must do Benjamin the justice to acknowledge that 
though, like the young gentlemen his friends and companions, 
his dress was foppish and his talk was of the pleasures of the 
town, he suffered nothing to stand in the way of his advance- 
ment. He was resolved upon being a great lawyer, and there- 
fore if he spent the evening in drinking, singing, and making 
merry, he was reading in chambers or else attending the 
courts all the day, and neglected nothing that would make 
him master of his profession. And though o| learning he had 
little his natural parts were so good, and his "resolution was so 
strong, that I doubt not he would have achieved his ambition 
had it not been for the circumstances which afterward cut 
short his career. His course of life, by his own boasting, was 
profligate; his friends were drinkers and revelers; his favorite 
haunt was *the tavern, where they all drank punch and sung 
ungodly songs and smoked tobacco; and of religion he seemed 
to have no care whatever. 

I was afraid that he would return to the nauseous subject 
which he had opened three years before. Therefore I con- 
tinued with my mother, and would give him no chance to 
speak with me. But he found me, and caught me returning 
home one evening. 

“ Grace, he said, I feared that I might have to go away 
without a word alone with thee.-^^ 

I want no words alone, Benjamin. Let me pass. For 
be stood before me^.in the way. 

Not so fast, lAetty!^"" He caught me by the wrist, and 


44 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


being a young man ^so strong and determined, he held me as 
by a vise. Not so fast, Mistress Grace. First, my dear, let 
me tell thee that my purpose still holds; nay — here he swore 
a most dreadful impious oath — I am more resolved than 
ever. There is not a woman, even in London, that is to be 
compared with thee, child. What? Compared with thee? 
Why, they are like the twinkling stars compared with the 
glorious queen of night. What did I say? — that at nineteen 
thou wouldst be a miracle of beauty? Nay, that time hath 
come already. I love thee, child. I love thee, I say, ten 
times as much as ever I loved thee before. 

He gasped, and then breathed hard, but still he held me 
fast. 

• ‘‘Idle compliments cost a man nothing, Benjamin. Say 
what you meant to say and let me go. If you hold me any 
longer I will cry out, and bring your father to learn the 
reason. 

“ Well,^^ he said, “ I will not keep thee. I have said what 
I wanted to say. My time hath not yet arrived. I am shortly 
to be called, and shall then begin to practice. AVhen I come 
back here again Twill be with a ring in one hand, and in the 
other the prospect of the woolsack. Think upon that while I 
am gone. ‘ Your ladyship ^ is finer than plain ‘ madame,^ 
and the court is more delightful than a village green amoug 
the pigs and ducks. Think upon it well; thou art a lucky girl; 
a plain village girl to be promoted to a coronet! However, I 
have no fears for thee; thou wilt adorn the highest fortune. 
Thou wilt be worthy of the great place whither I shall lead 
thee. What? Is Sir George Jeffreys a better man than I? Is 
he of better family? Had he better interest? Is he a bolder 
man? Not so. Yet was Sir George a common serjeant at 
twenty-three, and recorder at thirty; chief-justice of Chester 
at thirty-two. What he hath done I can do. Moreover, Sir 
George hath done me the honor to admit me to his company, 
and will advance me. This he hath promised, both in his 
cups and when he is sober. Think it over, child — a ring in 
one hand and a title in the other. 

So Benjamin went away again. I v^as afraid when I thought 
of him and his promise, because I knew him of old, and lais 
eyes were as full of determination as when he w^ould fight a 
lad of his own age, and go on fighting till the other had had 
enough. Yet he could not marry me against my will. His 
own father would protect me, to say nothing of mine. 

I should have told him then — as I had told him before — 
that I would never marry him. Then, perhaps, he would 


FOR FAITH AKD FREEDOM. 


45 


have been shaken in his purpo'fee. The very thought of marry- 
ing him filled me wifch terror unspeakable. I was afraid of 
him not only because he was so masterful — nay, women like a 
man to be strong of will — but because he had no religion in 
him, and lived like an atheist, if such a wretch there be; at all 
events, with unconcern about his soul, and because his life was 
profligate, his tastes were gross, and he was a drinker of much 
wine. Even at the manor house 1 had seen him at supper 
drinking until his cheeks were puffed out and his voice grew 
thick. What kind of happiness would there be for a wife 
whose husband has to be carried home by his varlets too heavy 
with drink to stand or to speak? 

Alas! there is one ^ thing which girls, happily, do Jiever ap- 
prehend. They can not understand how it is possible for a 
man to become so possessed with the idea oE their charms, 
which they hold themselves as of small account, knowing how 
fleeting they are, and of what small value, that he will go 
through fire and water for that woman; yea, and break all the 
commandments, heedless of his immol'tal soul, rather than 
suffer another man to take her — and that even though he 
knows that the poor creature loves him not, or loves another 
man. If maidens knew this I think that they would go in 
fear and trembling lest they should be coveted fby some wild 
beast in human shape, and prove the death of the gallant 
gentleman whom they would choose for their lover. Or they 
would make for themselves convents and hide in them, so 
great would be their fear. But it is idle to speak of this, be- 
cause, say what one will, girls can never understand the power 
and vehemence of love when once it hath seized and doth 
thoroughly possess a man. 


CHAPTEE VII. 

MEDICIHE DOCTOR. 

Humphrey did nofc, like Benjamin, brag of the things he 
would do when he should go forth to the world. Neverthe- 
less, he thought much about his future, and frequently he dis- 
coursed with me about the life that he fain would lead. A 
young man, I think, wants some one with whom he may speak 
freely concerning the thoughts which fill his soul. We who 
belong to the sex which receives but does not create or invent 
— which profits by man^s gobd work, and suffers from the evil 
which he too often does — ^have no such thoughts and am- 
bitions. 


46 


FOK FAITH AKD FREEDOM, 


I cau not/' he- would say^ take upon me holy orders, as 
Mr. Boscorel would have me, promising, in my cousin Eobin^s 
name, this living after his death, because, though I am in truth 
a mere pauper and dependent, there are in me none of those 
prickings of the spirit which I could interpret into a Divine call 
for the ministry; next, because I could not in conscience sign 
the Thirty-nine Articles while I still held that the Non-con- 
forrnist way of worship was more consonant with the Word of 
God. And, again, I am of opinion that the law, which forbids 
any but a well-formed man from serving at the altar, hath in 
it something eternal. It denotes that as no cripple may serve 
at the earthly altar, so in heaven, of which the altar is an em- 
blem, all those who dwell therein shall be perfect in body as in 
soul. What, then, is such an one as myself, who hath some 
learning and no fortune, to do? Sir Christopher, my bene- 
factor, will maintain me at Oxford until I have taken a degree. 
This is more than I could have expected; therefore I am re- 
solved to take a degree in medicine. It is the only profession 
fit for a misshapen crep,ture like me. They will not laugh at 
me when I alleviate their pains. 

“ Could any one laugh at you, Humphrey?’^ 

Pray Heaven I frighten not the ladies at the first aspect of 
me."^^ He laughed, but not with merriment; for, indeed, a 
cripple or a hunchback can not laugh mirthfully over his own 
misfortune. ‘‘ Some men speak scornfully of the profession, 
he went on. The great French playwright. Monsieur 
Moliere, hath made the physicians the butt and laughing-stock 
of all Paris. Yet consider: it is medicine which prolongs our 
days and relieves our pains. Before the science was studied, 
the wretch who caught a fever in the marshy forest lay down 
and died; an ague lasted all one^s life; a sore throat putrefied 
and killed; a rheumatism threw a man upon the bed from 
which he would never rise. The physician is man^s chief 
friend. If our sovereigns studied the welfare of humanity as 
deeply as the art of war, they would maintain, at vast expense, 
great colleges of learned men continually engaged in discover- 
ing the secrets of nature — the causes and the remedies of dis- 
ease. What better use can a man make of his life than to 
discover one — only one — secret which will drive away part of 
the agony of disease? The Jews, more merciful than the 
Eomans, stupefied their criminals after they were crucified; so 
they died, indeed, but their sufferings were less. So the phy- 
sician, though in the end all men must die, may help them to 
die without pain. Nay, I have even thought that we might 
devise means of causing the patient by some potent drug to 


rOR FAITH AKD FREEDOM. 47 

fall into so deep a sleep that even the surgeon ^s knife shall not 
cause him to awaken.^"' 

He therefore, before he entered at Oxford, read with my fa- 
ther many learned books of the ancients on the science and 
practice of medicine, and studied botany with the help of such 
books as he could procure. 

Some men have but one side to them — that is to say, the 
only active part of them is engaged in but one study; the rest 
is given up to ease or indolence. Thus Benjamin studied law 
diligently, but nothing else. Humphrey, for his part, read 
his Galen and his Oelsus, but he neglected not the cultivation 
of those arts and accomplishments in which Mr. Boscorel was 
as ready a teacher as he was a ready scholar. He thus learned 
the history of painting and sculpture and architecture, and 
that of coins and medals, so that at eighteen Humphrey might 
already have set up as a virtuoso. 

Nor was this all. Still by the help of the rector, he learned 
the use of the pencil and the brush, and could both draw 
prettily and paint in water-colors, whether the cottages or the 
church, the cows in the fields or the woods and hills. I have 
many pictures of his painting which he gave me from time to 
time. And he could play sweetly, whether on the spinet or 
the violin or the guitar, spending many hours every week with 
Mr. Boscorel, playing duettos together; and willingly he would 
sing, having a rich and full voice very delightful to hear. 
When I grew a great girl, and had advanced far enough, I 
was permitted to play with them. There was no end to the 
music wliich Mr. Boscorel possessed. First, he had a great 
store of English ditties such as country people love, as, Sing 
all a green willow,^^ Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,^^ or 
“ Once I loved a maiden fair. There was nothing rough or 
rude in these songs, though I am informed that much wicked- 
ness is taught by the ribald songs that are sung in play-houses 
and coffee-rooms. And when we were hot playing or singing, 
Mr. Boscorel would read us poetry — ^portions from Shakespeare 
or Ben Jonson, or out of Milton^s Paradise Lost,^ or from 
Herrick, who is surely the sweetest poet that ever lived, yet 
marred,""^ said Mr. Boscorel, ^^by much coarseness and cor- 
ruption.^^ Now, one day, after we had been thus reading — 
one winter afternoon, when the sun lay upon the meadows — 
Humphrey walked home with me, and on the way confessed, 
with many blushes, that he, too, had been writing verses. 
And with that he lugged a paper out of his pocket. 

They are for thine own eyes only, Grace. Truly, my dear, 
thou hast the finest eyes in the world. They are for no other 

•>1 


48 


POR PAITH AKD FREEDOM. 


eyes than thine/^ he repeated. Not for Eobin^ mind^ lest 
he laugh; poetry hath in it something sacred, so that even the 
writer of bad verses can not bear to have them laughed at. 
When thou art a year or two older thou wilt understand that 
they were written for thy heart as well as for thine eyes. 
Yet, if thou like the verses, they may be seen by Mr. Boscoiel, 
but in private; and if he Taugh at them, do not tell me. Yet, 
again, one would like to know what he said; wherefore tell me, 
though his words be like a knife in my side.^^ 

Thus he wavered between wishing to show them to his mas- 
ter tn art, and fearing. 

In the end, when I showed them to Mr. Boscorel, he said 
that for a beginner they were very well — very well indeed ; that 
the rhymes were correct, and the meter true; that years and 
practice would give greater firmness, and that the crafty in- 
terlacing of thought and passion, which was the characteristic 
of Italian verse, could only be learned by much reading of the 
Italian poets. More he said, speaking upon the slight subject 
of rhyme' and poetry with as much seriousness and earnestness 
as if he were weighing and comparing texts of Scripture. 

Then he gave me back the verses with a sigh. 

“ Child, he said, to none of us is given what most we 
desire. For my part, I longed in his infancy that my son 
should grow up even as Humphrey — as quick to learn, with as 
true a taste, with as correct an dar, with a hand so skillful. 
But, you see, I complain not, though Benjamin loves the noisy 
tavern better than the quiet coffee-house where the w^bs resort. 
To him such things as verses, art, and music are foolishness. 
I say that I complain not; but I would to Heaven that Hum- 
phrey were my own, and that his shoulders were straight, poor 
lad! Thy father hath made him a Puritan; he is such as John 
Milton in his youth, and as. beautiful in face as that stoat 
Eepublican. I doubt not that we shall have from the hand of 
Humphrey, if he live and prosper, something fine, the nature 
of which, whether it is to be in painting, or in music, or in 
poetry, I know not. Take the verses, and take care that thou 
lose them not; and, child, remember, the poet is allowed to 
say what he pleases about a woman^s eyes. Be not deceived 
into thinking — But no, no, there is no fear. Good-night, 
thou sweet and innocent saint. 

I knew not then what he meant, but these are the verses; 
and I truly think that they are very moving and religious; for 
if woman be truly the most beautiful work of the Creator 
(which all men aver), then it behooves her all the more still to 


mu PAITH AKB FKBEBOM. 49 

point upward. I read them with a pleasure and surprise that 
filled my whole soul, and inflamed my heart with pious joy. 

Around, above, and everywhere 
The earth hath many a lovely thing; 

The zephyrs soft, the flowers fair, 

The babbling brook, the bubbling spring. 

“ The gray of dawn, the azure sky, 

The sunset glow, the evening gloom; 

The warbling thrush, tha skylark high. 

The blossoming hedge, the garden’s bloom. 

‘‘ The sun in state, the moon in pride, 

The twinkling stars in order laid; 

The winds that ever race and ride, 

The shadows flying o’er the glade. 

Oh! many a lovely thing hath earth, 

To charm the eye and witch the soul; 

Yet one there is of passing worth — 

For that one thing I give the whole. 

“ The crowning work, the last thing made. 

Creation’s masterpiece to be— 

Bend o’er yon stream, and there displayed. 

This wondrous thing reflected see. 

“ Behold a face for Heaven designed; 

See how those eyes thy soul betray : 

Love — secret love — there sits enshrined. 

And upward still doth point the way.” 

When Humphrey went away he did not, like Benjamin, 
come blustering and declaring that he would marry me, and 
that he would break the skull of any other man who dared 
make love to me; not at all; Humphrey, with tears in his 
eyes, told me that he was sorry I could not go to Oxford as 
well; that he was going to lose the sweetest companion; and 
that he should always love me; and then he kissed me on the 
forehead, and so departed. Why should he not always love 
me? I knew very well that he loved me, and that I loved 
him. Although he was so young, being only seventeen when 
he was entered at Exeter College, I suppose there never was a 
young gentleman went to the University of Oxford with so 
many accomplishments and so much learning. By my fa- 
therms testimony he read Greek as if it were his mother-tongue, 
and he wrote and conversed easily in Latin; and you have 
heard what arts and accomplishments he added to this solid 
learning. He was elected to a scholarship at his college, that 


50 


FOE FAITH AHD FEEEDOM. 


of Exeter, and after he took his degree as Bachelor of Medicine 
he was made a Fellow of All Souls, where Mr. Boscorel him- 
self had also been a fellow. This election was not only a 
great distinction for him, but it gave him what a learned 
^joung man especially desires — the means of living and of pur- 
ipuing his studies. 

■' While he was at Oxford he wrote letters to Sir Christopher, 
to Mr. Boscorel, and to my father (to whom also he sent such 
new books and pamphlets as he thought- would interest him). 
To me he sent sometimes drawings and sometimes books, but 
never verses. 

Now (to make an end of Humphrey for the present) when 
he had obtained his fellowship he asked for and obtained leave 
of absence and permission to study medicine in those great 
schools, which far surpass, they say, our English schools of 
medicine. These are that of Montpellier; the yet more famous 
school of Padua, in Italy; and that of Leyden, whither many 
Englishmen resort for study, notably Mr. Evelyn, whose book 
called Sylva was in the rector^s library. 

He carried on during the whole of this time a correspond- 
ence with Mr. Boscorel on the paintings, statues, and arch- 
itecture to be seen wherever his travels carried him. These 
letters Mr. Boscorel read aloud, with a map spread before him, 
discoursing on the history of the place and the chief things to 
be seen there, before he began to read. Surely there never 
was 'a man so much taken up with the fine arts, especially as 
they were practiced by the ancients. 

There remains the last of the boys — Eobin, Sir Christopher^s 
grandson and heir. I should like this story to be all about 
Eobin — yet one must needs speak of the others. I declare 
that from the beginning there n^ter was a boy more happy, 
more jolly, never any one more willing to be always making 
some one happy. He loved the open air, the wild creatures, 
the trees, the birds, everything that lives beneath the sky; yet 
not like my poor brother Barnaby — a hater of books. He read 
all the books which told about creatures, or hunting, or coun- 
try life, and all voyages and travels. A fresh-colored, whole- 
some lad, not so grave as Humphrey, nor so moody as Ben- 
jamin, who always seemed to carry with him the scent of 
woods and fields. He was to Sir Christopher what Benjamin, 
was to Jacob. Even my father loved him, though he was so 
poor a scholar. 

Those who stay at home. have homely wits, 'therefore Eobin 
must follow Humphrey to Oxford. He went thither the year 
after his cousin, I never learned that he obtained a scholar- 


FOB FAITH AND FBEEDOM. 


51 


ship, or that he was considered one of the younger pillars of 
that learned and ancient university; or, indeed, that he took a 
degree at all. 

After he left Oxford he must go to London, there to study 
Justices^ Law, and fit himself for the duties he would have to 
fulfill. Also, his grandfather would have him acquire some 
knowledge of the court and the city, and the ways of the great 
and the rich. This, too, he did, though he never learned to 
prefer those ways to the simple customs and habits of his 
Somerset village. 

He, too, like the other two, bade me a tender farewell. 

^^Poor Grace he said, taking both my hands in his. 
‘‘ What wilt thou do when I am gone?^^ 

Indeed, since Humphrey went away we had been daily com- 
panions, and at the thought of being thus left alone the tears 
were running down my cheeks. 

Why, sweetheart, he said, to think that I should ever 
make thee cry— I who desire nothing but to make thee always 
laugh and be happy! What wilt thou do? Go often to my 
mother; she loves thee as if her own daughter. Go and talk to 
her concerning me. It please th the poor soul to be still talking 
of her son. And forget not my grandfather. Play back- 
gammon with him; fill his pipe for him; sing to the spinet 
for him; talk to him about Humphrey and me. And forget 
not Mr. Boscorel, my uncle. The poor man looks as melan- 
choly since Humphrey went away as a turtle robbed of her 
nest. I saw him yesterday opening one of his drawers full of 
medals, and he sighed over them tit to break his heart. He 
sighed for Humphrey, not for Ben. Well, child, what more? 
Take Lance — '’twas his dog — for a run every day; make 
George Sparrow keep an* eye upon^ the stream for otters; and 
—there are a thousand things, but I will write them down. 
Have patience with the dear old man when he will be still talk- 
ing about me. 

Patience, Robin I said. Why, we all love to talk 
about thee. 

Do you all love to talk about me? Dost thou too, Grace? 
Oh, my dear! my dear!^^ Here he took me in his arms and 
kissed me on the lips. Dost thou also love to talk about 
>me? Why, my dear, I shall think of nothing but of thee; be- 
cause — oh, my dear! my dear! — I love thee with all my 
heart. 

Well, I was still so foolish that I understood nothing more 
than that we all loved him, and he loved us all. 

Grace, I will write letters to thee. I will put them in the 


62 


FOE FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


packet for my mother. Thus thou wilt understand that I am 
always thinking of thee.^^ 

He was as good as his word. But the letters were so full of 
the things he was doing and seeing that it was quite clear that 
his mind had plenty of room for more than one object. To 
be sure, I should have been foolish indeed had I desired that 
his letters should tell me that he was always thinking about 
me, when he should have been attending to his business. 

After a year in London his grandfather thought that he 
should travel. Therefore he went abroad, and joined Hum- 
phrey at Montpellier, and with him rode northward to Leyden, 
where he sojourned while his cousin attended the lectures of 
that famous school. 


CHAPTEK VIII. 

A ROYAL PROGRESS. 

When all the boys wore gone the time was quiet indeed for 
those who were left behind. My mother^s wheel went spinning 
still, but I think that some kindness on the part of Mr. Bos- 
corel as well as Sir Christopher caused her weekly tale of yarn 
to be of less importance. And as for me, not only would she 
never suffer me to sit at the spinning-wheel, but there was so 
much. request of me (to replace the boys) that I was nearly all 
the day either with Sir Christopher, or with madame, or with 
Mr. Boscorel. 

L’p to the year 1680, or thereabouts, I paid no more atten- 
tion to political matters than any young woman with no knowl- 
edge may be supposed to give. Yet, of course, I was on the 
side of liberty, both civil and religious. How should that be 
otherwise, my father being such as he was, muzzled for all 
these years, the work of his life prevented and destroyed? 

It was in that year, however, that I became a most zealous 
partisan and lover of the Protestant cause, in the way that I 
about to relate. 

Everybody knows that there is no part of Great Britain (not 
even Scotland) where the Protestant religion hath supporters 
more stout and stanch than Somerset and Devonshire. I hope 
I shall ngt be accused of disloyalty to Queen Anne, under 
whom we flourish and are happy, when I say that in the West 
of England we had grown — I know not how — to regard the 
late misguided Duke of Monmouth as the champion of the 
Protestant faith. When, therefore, the duke came into the 
West of England in the year 1680, five years before the re- 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


53 

bellion, he was everywhere received with acclamations^ and by 
crowds who gathered round him to witness their loyalty to the 
Protestant faith. They came also to gaze upon the gallant 
commander who had defeated the French and the Dutchy and 
.was said (but erroneously) to be as wise as he was brave, and 
as religious as he was beautiful to look upon. As for his wis- 
dom, those who knew him best have since assured the world 
that he had little or none, his judgment being always swayed 
and determined for him by crafty and subtle persons seeking 
their own interests. And as for his religion, whatever may 
have been his profession, good works were wanting — as is now 
very well known. But at that time, and among our people, 
the wicked ways of courts were only half understood. And 
there can be no doubt that, whether he was wise or religious, 
the show of affection with which the duke was received upon 
this journey turned his head, and caused him to think that 
these people would rally round him if he called upon them. 
And I suppose that there is nothing which more delights a 
prince than to believe that his friends are ready even to lay 
down their lives in his behalf. 

At that time the country was greatly agitated by anxiety 
concerning the succession. Those who were nearest the throne 
knew that King Charles was secretly a Papist. We in the 
country had not learned that dismal circumstance; yet we 
knew the religion of the Duke of York. Thousamds there 
were, like Sir Christopher himself, who now lamented the re- 
turn of the king, considering the disgraces which had fallen 
upon the country. But what was done could not be undone. 
They therefore asked themselves if the nation would suffer an 
avowed Papist to ascend a Protestant throne. If not, what 
should be done? And here, as everybody knows, was opinion 
divided. For some declared that the Duke of Monmouth, had 
he his rights, was the lawful heir; and others maintained, in 
the king^s own word, that he was never married to Mistress 
Lucy Waters. Therefore they would have the Duke of York^s 
daughter, a Protestant princess, married to William of Orange, 
proclaimed queen. The Monmouth party were strong, how- 
ever, and it was even said — Mr. Henry Clark, minister of 
Crewkern, wrote a pamphlet to prove it — that a poor woman, 
Elizabeth Parcet by name, touched the duke (he being igno- 
rant of the thing) for king^s evil, and was straightway healed. 
Sir Christopher laughed at the story, saying that the king 
himself, whether he was descended from a Scottish Stuart or 
from King Solomon himself, could no more cure that dreadful 
disease than the seventh son of a seventh son (as some foolish 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


U 

people believe), or the rubbing of the part affected by the hand 
of a man that had been hanged (as others do foolishly believe), 
which is the reason why on the gibbets hanging-corpses are 
always handless. 

It was noised abroad, beforehand, that the duke was going 
to ride through the west country, in order to visit his friends. ' 
The progress (it was more like a royal progress than the jour- 
ney of a private nobleman) began with his visit to Mr. Thomas 
Thynne, of Longleat House. It is said that his chief reason 
for going to that house was to connect himself with the obliga- 
tion of the tenant of Longleat to give the king and his suite a 
night^s lodging when they visited that part of the country. 
Mr. Thynne, who entertained the duke on this occasion, was 
the same who was afterward murdered in London by Count 
Konigsmark. They called him Tom of Ten Thousand.^^ 
The poet Dryden hath written of this progress, in that poem 
wherein, under the fabled name of Absalom, he figures the 
duke; 

He now begins his progress to ordain, 

With chariots, horsemen, and a numerous train. 

Fame runs before him as the morning star. 

And shouts of joy salute him from afar. 

Each house receives him as a guardian god, 

And consecrates the place of his abode.” 

It was for his hospitable treatment of the duke that Mr. 
Thynne was immediately afterward deprived of the command 
of the Wiltshire Militia. 

Son-in-law, said Sir Christopher, I would ride out to 
meet the duke in respect to his Protestant professions. As for 
any pretensions he may have to the successsion, I know noth- 
ing of them.^^ 

I will ride with you, sir,^^ said the rector, to meet the 
son of the king. And as for any Protestant professions, I 
know nothing of them. His grace remains, I believe, within 
the pale of the Church as by law established. Let us all ride 
out together. 

Seeing that my father also rode with them, it is certain that 
there were many and diverse reasons why so many thousands 
gathered together to welcome the duke. Madame, Eobin’s 
mother, out of her kind heart invited me to accompany her, 
and gave nie a white frock to wear, and blue ribbons to put 
into it. 

We made, with our servants, a large party. We were also 
joined by many of the tenants, with their sons and wives, so 
that when we came to Ilchester, Sir Christopher was riding at 


FOB FAITH AKD FREEDOM. 


55 


the head of a great company of sixty or more, and very fine 
they looked, all provided with blue favors in honor of the 
duke. 

From Bradford Orcas to Ilchester is but six miles as the 
crow files, but the ways (which are narrow and foul in winter) 
do so wind and turn about that they add two miles at least to 
the distance. Fortunately the season was summer — namely, 
August — when the sun is hottest and the earth is dry, so that 
no one was bogged on the way. 

We started betimes, namely, at six in the morning, because 
we knew not for certain at what time the duke would arrive at 
Ilchester. When we came forth from the Manor House the 
farmers were already waiting for us, and so, after greetings 
from his honor, they fell in and followed. We first took the 
narrow and rough lane which leads to the high-road; but when 
we reached it we found it full of people, riding, like ourselves, 
or trudging, staff in hand, all in the same direction. They 
were going to gaze upon the Protestant duke, who, if he had 
his way, would restore freedom of conscience, and abolish the 
Acts against the Non-conformists. We rode through Marston 
Magna, but only the old people and the little children were 
left there; in the fields the ripe corn stood waiting to be cut; 
in the farm-yards the beasts were standing idle; all the hinds 
were gone to Ilchester to see the duke. And I began to fear 
lest when we got to Ilchester we should be too late. At Mars- 
ton we left the main road and entered upon a road (call it a 
track rather than a road) across the country, which is here flat 
and open. In winter it is miry and boggy, but it was now dry 
and hard. This path brought us again to the main road in two 
miles or thereabouts, and here we were but a mile or so from 
Ilchester. Now, such a glorious sight as awaited us here I 
never expected to see. Once again, after five years, I was to 
see a welcome still more splendid, but notliiug can ever efface 
from my memory that day. For first, the roads, as I have 
said, were thronged with rustics, and next, when we rode into 
the town we found it filled with gentlemen most richly dressed, 
and ladies so beautiful, and with such splendid attire, that it 
dazzled my eyes to look upon them It was a grand thing to 
see the gentlemen take off their hats and cry, Huzza for 
brave Sir Christopher!^^ Everybody knew his opinions and 
on what side he had fought in the Civil War. The old man 
bent his head, and I think that he was pleased with this mark 
of honor. 

The town, which, though ancient, is now decayed and hath 
but few good houses in it, was now made glorious with bright- 


mu FAITH AKD FREEDOM. 


S(1 

colored cloths^ carpets, flags, and ribbons. There were bands 
of music; the bells of the church were ringing; the main street 
was like a fair, with booths and stalls; and in the market- 
place there were benches set up with white canvas covering, 
where sat ladies in their flne dresses, some of them with naked 
shoulders unseemly to behold ; yet it was pretty to see the long 
curls lying on their white shoulders. Some of them sat with 
half-closed eyes, which, I have since learned, is a fashion of 
the court. Mostly they wore satin petticoats, and demi-gowns 
also of satin, furnished with a long train. Our place was be- 
side the old cross with its gilt ^all and vane. The people who 
filled the streets came from Sherborne, from Bruton, from 
Shepton, from Glastonbury, from Langport, and from Somer- 
ton, and from the villages round. It was computed that there 
were twenty thousand of them. Two thousand at least rode 
out to meet the duke, and followed after him when he rode 
through the town. And, oh! the shouting as he drew near, 
the clashing of bells, the beating of the drums, the blowing of 
the horns, the firing of the guns, as if the more noise they 
made the greater would be the duke. 

Since that day I have not wondered at the power which a 
prince hath of drawing men after him, even to the death. 
Never was heir to the crown received with such joy and wel- 
come as was this young man, who had no title to the crown, 
and was base-born. Yet, because he was a brave young man, 
and comely above all other young men, gracious of speech, and 
ready with a laugh and a joke, and because he was the son of 
the king, and the reputed champion of the Protestant faith, 
the people could not shout too loud for him. 

The duke was at this time in the prime of manhood, being 
thirty-five years of age. At that age,''"’ Mr. Boscorel used to 
say, one would desire to remain if the body of clay were im- 
mortal, for then the volatile humors of youth have been dis- 
sipated. The time of follies has passed; love is regarded with 
the sober eyes of experience; knowledge has been acquired; 
skill of eye and hand has been gained, if one is so happy as to 
be a follower of art and music; wisdom hath been reached, if 
wisdom is ever to be attained. But wisdom, he would add, 
^Ms a quality generally lacking at every period of life. 

When last I saw the duke/^ he told us i^ile we waited, 

was fifteen years ago, in St. James^’s Park. He was walking 
with the king, his father, who had his arm about his son^s 
shoulders, and regarded him fondly. At that time he was, 
indeed, a very David for beauty. I suppose that he hath not 
kept that singular loveliness which made him the darling of 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


57 


the court. That^ indeed, were not a thing to be desired or 
expected. He is now the hero of Maestricht, and the Chan- 
cellor of Cambridge University.'’^ 

And then all hats were pulled oU, and the ladies waved their 
handkerchiefs, and the men shouted, and you would have 
thought the bells would have pulled the old tower down with 
the vehemence of their ringing; for the duke was riding into 
the town. 

He was no longer a beautiful boy, but a man at whose aspect 
every heart was softened. His enemies, in his presence, could 
not blame him; his friends, at sight of him, could not praise 
him, of such singular beauty was he possessed. Softness, gen- 
tleness, kindness, and good-will reigned in his large, soft eyes; 
graciousness sat upon his lips, and all his face seemed to smile 
as he rode slowly in the lane formed by the crowd on either 
hand. 

What said the Poet Dryden in that same poem of his from 
which I have already quoted? 

Early in foreign fields he won renown 
With kings and states allied to Israel’s crown; 

In peace the thoughts of war he could remove, 

And seemed as he were only born for love. 

Whate’er he did was done with so much ease, 

In him alone ’twas natural to please; 

His motions all accompanied with grace. 

And Paradise was opened in his face.” 

How I have to tell of what happened to me — of all people 
in the world, to me — the most insignificant person in the whole 
crowd. It chanced that as the duke came near the spot be- 
side the cross where we were standing, the press in front 
obliged him to stop. He looked about him while he waited, 
smiling still and bowing to the people. Presently his eyes fell 
upon me, and he whispered a gentleman who rode beside him, 
yet a little in the rear. This gentleman laughed, and dis- 
mounted. What was my confusion, when he advanced toward 
me and spoke to me! 

Madame, he said — calling me madame his grace 
would say one word to you, with permission of your friends.'’'’ 

Go with this gentleman, child, said Sir Christopher, 
laughing. Everybody laughs — I know not why — when a girl 
is led out to be kissed. 

Fair White Eose of Somerset,'’'’ said his grace — '’twas the 
most musical voice in the world, and the softest — fair White 
Eose he repeated the words — ^‘let me be assured of the 


68 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


welcome of Ilchester by a kiss from your sweet lips, which I 
will return in token of my gratitude/^ 

All the people who heard these words shouted as if they 
would burst themselves asunder. And the gentleman who 
had led me forth lifted me so that my foot rested on the 
duke^s foot, while his grace laid his arm tenderly round my 
waist and kissed me twice. 

Sweet child,^^ he said, what is thy name?^^ 

By your grace^s leave,^^ 1 said,- the words being very 
strange, I am the daughter of Doctor Comfort Bykin, an 
ejected minister. I have come with Sir Christopher Challis, 
who stands yonder.'’^ 

Sir Christopher!"'^ said the duke, as if surprised. Let 
me shake hands with Sir Christopher. 1 take it kindly. Sir 
Christopher, that you have so far. honored me.^^ So he gave 
the old man, who stepped forward bareheaded, his hand, still 
holding me by the waist. I pray that we may meet again. 
Sir Christopher, and that before long.^^ Then he drew a gold 
ring, set with emeralds, from his forefinger, and placed it upon 
mine, and kissed me again, and then suffered me to be lifted 
down. And you may be sure that it was with red cheeks that 
I took my place among my friends. Yet Sir Christopher was 
pleased at the notice taken of him by the duke, and my father 
was not displeased at the part I had been made to play. 

When the duke had ridden through the town, many of the 
people followed after, as far as White Lackington, which is 
close to Ilminster. So many were they that they took down a 
great piece of the park paling to admit them all; and there, 
under a Spanish chestnut tree, the duke drank to the health of 
all the people. 

At Ilminster, whither he rode a few days later, at Chard, at 
Ford Abbey, at Whyton, and at Exeter — wherever he went — 
he was received with the same shouts and acclamations. It is 
no wonder, therefore, that he should believe a few years later 
that those people would follow him when he drew the sword 
for the Protestant religion. 

One thing is certain— that in the West of England, from the 
progress of Monmouth to the Eebellion, there was uneasiness, 
with an anxious looking forward to troubled times. The peo- 
ple of Taunton kept as a day of holiday and thanksgiving the 
anniversary of the raising of Charleses siege. When the mayor, 
in 1683, tried to stop the celebration, they nearly stoned him 
to death. After this. Sir George Jeffreys, afterward Lord 
Jeffreys, who took the spring circuit in 1684, was called upon 
■'v.^to report on the loyalty of the West country. He reported 


FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. 59 

that the gentry were loyal and well disposed. But he knew 
not the mind of the weavers and spinners of the country. 

It was this progress, the sight of the duke^s sweet face, his 
flattery of me, and his soft words and the ring he gave me, 
which made me from that moment such a partisan of his cause 
as only a woman can be. Women can not fight, but they can 
feel; and they can not only ardently desire, but they can de- 
spise and contemn those who think otherwise. I can not say 
that it was I who persuded our boys five years later to join the 
duke; but I can truly say that I did and said all that a wom- 
an can; that I rejoiced when they did so; and that I should 
never have forgiven Eobin had he joined the forces of the 
Papist king. 


CHAPTER IX. 

WITH THE ELDERS. 

So we went home again, all well pleased, and I holding the 
duke^s ring tight, I promise you. It was a most beautiful ring 
when I came to look at it: a great emerald was in the midst of 
it, with little pearls and emeralds set alternately around it. 
Never was such a grand gift to so humble a person. I tied it 
to a black ribbon and put it in the box which held my clothes. 
But sometimes I could not forbear the pleasure of wearing it 
round my neck, secretly; not for the joy of possessing the ring 
so much as for remembering the lovely face and the gracious 
words of the giver. 

At that time I was in my sixteenth year, but well grown for 
my age. Like my father, I am above the common stature of 
women. We continued for more than four years longer to 
live without the company of the boys, which caused me to be 
much in the society of my elders, and as much at the Manor 
House and the rectory as at home. At the former place Sir 
Christopher loved to have me with him all day long if my 
mother would suffer it; when he walked abroad I must walk 
with him; when he walked in his garden I must be at his side; 
when he awoke after his afternoon sleep he liked to see me sit- 
ting ready to talk to him. I must play to him and sing to 
him; or I must bring out the backgammon board; or I must 
read the last letters from Eobin and Humphrey. Life is dull 
for an old man whose friends are mostly dead, unless he have 
the company of the young. So David in his old age took to 
himself a young wife, when, instead, he should have comfort- 


60 


FOR FAITH AKD FREEDOM. 


ed his heart with the play and prattle of his grandchildren — 
of whom, I suppose, there must have been many families. 

Now, as I was so much with his honor, I had much talk with 
him upon things on which wise and ancient men do not often 
converse with girls, and I was often present when he dis- 
coursed with my father or with his son-in-law, the rector, on 
high and serious matters. It was a time of great anxiety and 
uncertainty. There were great pope burnings in the country, 
and when some were put in pillory for riot at these bonfires 
not a hand was lifted against them. They had one at Sher- 
borne on November 17th, the anniversary of Queen Elizabeth's 
coronation day, instead of November 5th. Boys went about 
the streets asking for half-pence and singing: 

“ Up with the ladder, 

And down with the rope; 

Give us a penny 
To burn the old Pope.” 

There were riots in Taunton, where the High Church party 
burned the pulpit of a meeting-house; people went about open- 
ly saying that the Eoundheads would soon come back again. 
From Eobin we heard of the popish plots and the flight of the 
Duke of York, and afterward of Monmouth^s disgrace and 
exile. At all the market-towns where men gathered together 
they talked of these things, and many whispered together — a 
thing which Sir Christopher loved not, because it spoke of con- 
spiracies and secret plots, whereas he was for bold declaration 
of conscience. 

In shojt, it was an anxious time, and everybody understood 
that serious things would happen should the king die. They 
were not wanting, besides, omens of coming ills — if you ac- 
cept ‘such things as omens or warnings. To Taunton (after- 
ward the town most affected by the rebellion) a plain warning 
was vouchsafed by the rumbling and thundering and shaking 
of the earth itself, so that dishes were knocked down and cups 
broken, and plaster shaken off the walls of houses. And once 
(this did I myself see with my own eyes) the sun rose with four 
other suns for companions — a most terrifying sight, though 
Mr. Boscorel, who spoke learnedly on omens, had an explana- 
tion of this miracle, which he said was due to natural causes 
alone. And at He Brewers there was a monstrous birth of 
two girls with but one body from the breast downward; their 
names were Aquila and Priscilla, but I believe they lived only 
a short time. 

I needs must tell of Mr. Boscorel because he was a man the 


FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. 


61 . 

like of whom I have never since beheld. I believe there can 
be few men such as he was^ who could so readily exchange the 
world of heat and argument for the calm and dispassionate air 
of art and music. Even religion (if I may venture to say so) 
seemed of less importance to him than art. I have said that 
he taught me to play upon the spinet. Now that Humphrey 
was gone, he desired my company every day, in order, he pre- 
tended, that I might grow perfect in my performance, but in 
reality because he was lonely at the rectory, and found pleas- 
ure in my company. We played together — he upon the vio- 
loncello and I upon the spinet — such music as he chose. It 
was sometimes grave and solemn music, such as Lullies 
Miserere or his De Profundis;'’^ sometimes it was some 
part of a Eoman Catholic mass: then was my soul uplifted 
and wafted heavenward by the chords, which seemed prayer 
and praise fit for the angels to harp before the throne. Some- 
times it was music which spoke of human passions, when I 
would be, in like manner, carried out of myself. My master 
would watch not only my execution, commending or correct- 
ing, but he would also watch the effect of the music upon my 
mind. 

We are ourselves,^^ he said, like unto the instruments 
upon which we play. For as one kind of instrument, as the 
drum, produces but one note; and another, as the cymbals, 
but a clashing which is in itself discordant, but made effective 
in a band; so others are, like the most delicate and sensitive 
violins — those of Cremona — capable of producing the finest 
music that the soul of man hath ever devised. It is by such 
music, child, that some of us mount unto heaven. As for me, 
indeed, I daily feel more and more that music leadeth the soul 
upward, and that as regards the disputations on the W ord of 
God, the letter indeed killeth, but the spirit, which music 
helpeth us to feel — the spirit, I say, giveth life. He sighed”, 
and drew his bow gently across the first string of his violon- 
cello. ^Tis a time of angry argument. The Word of God 
is thrown from one to the other as a pebble is shot from a 
sling. It wearies me. In tWs room, among these books of 
music, my soul finds rest, ana the spiritual part of me is lifted 
heavenward. Humphrey and you, my dear, alone can com-, 
prehend this saying.' Thou hast a mind like his, to feel and” 
understand what music means. Listen Here he executed 
a piece of music at which the tears rose to my eyes. ‘‘ That 
is from the Komish mass which we are taught ignorantly to 
despise. My child, I am indeed no Catholic, and I hold that 
ours is the pmer church, yet in losing the mass we have lost 


FOE FAITH AKD FKEEDOM. 

the great music with which the Catholics sustain their souls. 
Some of our anthems^, truly, are good; but what is a single 
anthem, finished in ten minutes, compared with a grand mass 
which lasts three hours 

Then he had portfolios filled with engravings, which he 
would bring forth and contemplate with a kind of rapture, dis- 
coursing upon the engraver^s art and its difficulties, so that I 
should not, as is the case with ignorant persons, suppose that 
these things were produced without much training and skill. 
He had also boxes full of coins, medals, and transparent gems 
carved most delicately with heathen gods and goddesses, shep- 
herds and swains, after the ancient fashion, unclothed and 
unashamed. On these things he would gaze with admiration 
which he fried to teach me, but could not, because I can not 
believe that we may without blame look upon such figures. 
Nevertheless, they were most beautiful, the hands and faces 
and th6 very hair so delicately and exquisitely carved that you 
could hardly believe it possible. And he talked solemnly and 
scholarly of these gauds, as if they were things which peculiarly 
deserved the attention of wise and learned men. Nay, he 
would be even lifted out of himself in considering them. 

‘‘ Child, he said, we know not, and we can not even 
guess, the wonders of art that in heaven we shall learn to ac- 
complish — as if carving and painting were the occupation of 
angels! — ^^ or the miracles of beauty and of dexterity that we 
shall be able to design and execute. Here, the hand is clumsy 
and the brain is dull; we can not rise above ourselves; we are 
blind to the beauty with which the Lord hath filled the earth 
for the solace of human creatures. Nay, we are not even ten- 
der with the beauty that we see and love. "We suffer maidens 
sweet as the dreams of poets to waste their beauty unpraised 
and unsung, I am old, child, or I would praise thee in im- 
mortal verse. Much I fear that thou wilt grow old without 
the praise of sweet numbers. Well, there is no doubt more 
lasting beauty of face and figure hereafter to joy the souls of 
the elect. And thou wilt make his happiness for one man on 
earth. Pray Heaven, sweet child, that he look also to thine 

He would say such things with so grand an air, speaking as 
if his words should command respect, and with so kindly an 
eye and a soft smile, while he gently stroked the side of his 
nose, which was long, that I was always carried away with the 
authority of it, and not till after I left hini did I begin to per- 
ceive that my father would certainly never allow that the elect 
should occupy themselves with the frivolous pursuits of paint- 
ing and the ^e arts, but only with the playing of theh harps 


FOR FAITH AWD FREEDOM. 


63 


aiid the singing of praises. It was this consideration which 
caused him to consent that his daughter should learn the 
spinet. I did not tell him (God forgive me for the deceit, if 
there was any!) that we sometimes played music written for 
the mass; nor did I repeat what Mr. Boscorel said concerning 
arfc and the flinging about of the Word -of God, because my 
father was wholly occupied in controversy, and his principal, if 
not his only, weapon was the Word of God. 

Another pleasure which we had was to follow Humphrey in 
his travels by the aid of his letters and a mappa mundi, or 
atlas, which the rector possessed. Then I remember, when 
we heard that the boys were about to ride together through 
France from Montpellier to Leyden in Holland, we had on the 
table the great map of France. There were many drawings, 
coats of arms, and other pretty things on the map. 

It is now,^^ said Mr. Boscorel, finding out the place he 
wanted, and keeping his forefinger upon it, nearly thirty 
years since I made the grand tour, being then governor to the 
young Lord Silchester; who afterward died -of the plague in 
London, else had I been now a bishop, who am forgotten in 
this little place. The boys will ride, I take it, by the same 
road which we took: first, because it is the high-road and the 
safest; next, because it is the best provided with inns and rest- 
ing-places; and lastly, because it passes through the best part 
of his most Christian majesty^s dominions, and carries the trav- 
eler through his finest and most stately cities. From Mont- 
pellier they will ride — follow my finger, child! — to Nismes. 
Before the Eevocation it was a great place for those of the Ee- 
formed religion, and a populous town. Here they will not fail 
to visit the Eoman temple, which still stands. It is not, in- 
deed, such a noble monument as one may see in Eome; but it ^ 
is in good preservation, and a fair example of the latter style. 
•They will also visit the great amphitheater, which should be 
cleared of the mean houses which are now built up within it, 
and so exposed in all its vastness to the admiration of the 
world. After seeing these things they will direct their way 
across a desolate piece of country to Avignon, passing on the 
way the ancient Eoman aqueduct called the Pont de Gard. At 
Avignon they will admire the many churches and the walls, 
and will not fail to visit the palace of the popes during the 
Great Schism. Thence they will ride northward, unless they 
wish first to see the Eoman remains at Arles. Thence will 
they proceed up the valley of the Ehone, through many stately 
towns, till they come to Lyons, where, doubtless, they will so- 
journ for a few days. Next they will journey thi’ough the rich 


64 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM, 


country of Burgundy, and from the ancient town of Dijon will 
reach Paris through the city of Fontainebleau. On the way 
they will see many windows, noble houses, and castles, with 
rich towns and splendid churches; In no country are there 
more splendid churches, built in . the Gothic style, which we 
have now forgotten. Some of them, alas! have been defaced 
in the wars (so called of religion), where, as happened also to 
us, the delicate carved work, the scrolls and flowers and statues, 
were destroyed, and the painted windows broken. Alas that 
^en should refuse to suffer Art to become the minister and 
handmaid of Eehgion! Yet in the first and most glorious 
temple in which the glory of the Lord was visibly present, 
there were carved and graven lilies, with lions, oxen, chariots, 
cherubim, palm-trees, and pomegranates.^^ 

He closed his atlas and sat down. 

Ohild,^^ he said, meditating. ^^For a scholar, in his 
youth, there is no pleasure comparable with the pleasure of 
traveling in strange countries, among the monuments of an- 
cient days. My own son did never, to my sorrow, desire the 
pleasant paths of learning, and did never show any love for 
the arts, in which I have always taken so great delight. He 
desireth rather the companionship of men; he^oveth to drink 
and sing; and he nourisheth a huge ambition. ^Tis best that 
we are not all alike. Humphrey should have been my son. 
Forget not, my child, that he hath desired to be remembered 
to thee in every letter which he hath written. 

If the rector spoke much of Humphrey, madame made 
amends by talking continually of Eobin, and of .the great 
things that he would do when he returned home. Justice of 
the peace, that he would certainly be made; captain first and 
* afterward colonel in the Somerset Militia, that also should he 
be; knight of the shire, if he were ambitious — but that I knew^ 
he would never be; high sheriff of the county, if his slender 
means permitted — for the estate was not worth more than six 
or seven hundred pounds a year. Perhaps he would marry 
an heiress; it would be greatly to the advantage of the family 
if an heiress were to come into it with broad acres of her own; 
but she was not a woman who would seek to control her son in 
the matter of his affections, and if he chose a girl with no fort- 
une to her back, if she was a good girl and pious, madame 
would never say him nay. And he would soon return. The 
boy had been at Oxford and next in London, learning law, 
such as justices require. He was now with Humphrey at the 
University of Leyden, doubtless learning more law. 

^^My dear,^^ said madame, ‘‘we want him home. His 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


65 


grandfather groweth old, though still, thank God, in the full 
possession of his faculties. Yet a young man^s presence is 
needed. I trust and pray that he will return as he went, inno- 
cent, in spite of the many temptations of the wicked city. 
And, oh, child — what if he should have lost his heart to some 
designing city hussy 

He came — as ye shall hear immediately- — Eobin came home. 
Would to God that he had waited, if only for a single month! 
Had he not come, all our afflictions would have been spared 
us! Had he not come, that good old man. Sir Christopher — 
but it is vain to imagine what might have been. We are in 
the hands of the Lord; nothing that happens to us is permitted 
but by him, and for some wise purpose was Sir Christopher in 
his old age — alas! why should I anticipate what I have to 
narrate? 


CHAPTER X. 

LE ROY EST MORT. 

In February of the year 1685 King Charles II. died. 

Sir Christopher himself brought us the news from Sherborne, 
whither he had gone, as was his wont, to the weekly ordinary. 
He clattered up the lane on his cob, and halted at our gate. 

Call thy father, child. Give you good-day, Madame Eykin. 
Will your husband leave his books and come forth for a mo- 
ment? Tell him I have news.'^^ 

My father rose and obeyed. His gown was in rags; his feet 
were clad in cloth shoon, which I worked for him; his cheek 
was wasted; but his eye was keen. He was lean and tall; his 
hair was as white as Sir Christopher^s, though he was full 
twenty years younger. 

‘‘Friend and gossip, said Sir Christopher, “the king is 
dead.^^ 

“ Is Charles Stuart dead?^^ my father replied. “ He cum- 
bered the earth too long. For five-and-twenty years hath he 
persecuted the saints. Also he hath burned incense after the 
abomination of the heathen. Let his lot be as the lot of 
Ahaz.^^ 

“Nay; he is buried by this time. His brother, the Duke 
of York, hath been proclaimed kiiig. 

“ James the Papist. It is as though Manasseh should suc- 
ceed to Ahaz; and after him Jehoiakim. 

“ Yet the bells will ring, and we shall pray for the king; 
and wise men, friend Eykin, will do well to keep silence/^ 


66 


I'OR AKB i'BEEBOM. 


There is a' time to speak and a time to keep silence. It 
may be that the time is at hand when the godly man must 
stretch forth his hand to tear down the S^carlet Woman, 
though she slay him in the attempt/^ 

“ It may be so, friend Eykin; yet stretch not forth thine 
hand until thou art well assured of the Divine command. 
The king is dead. Now will my son-in-law ring out the bells 
for the new king, and we shall pray for him as we prayed for 
his brother. It is our duty to pray for all in authority, though 
to the prayers of a whole nation there seemeth, so far as human 
reason can perceive, no answer. 

I for one will pray no more for a king who is a Papist. 
Rather will I pray daily for his overthrow. 

King Charles is said to have received a priest before he 
died; yet it is worse that the king should be an open than a 
secret Catholic. Let us be patient. Doctor Eykin, and await 
the time. 

So he rode up the village, and presently the bells were set 
a-ringing, and they clashed as joyously, echoing around the 
Corton Hills as if the accession of King James II. was the only 
thing wanted to make the nation prosperous, happy, and re- 
ligious. 

My father stood at the gate after Sir Christopher left him. 
The wind was cold, and the twilight was falling, and his cas- 
sock was thin, but he remained there motionless until my 
mother went out and drew him back to the house by the arm. 
He went into his own room, but he read no more that day. 

In the evening he came forth and sat with us, and while I 
sat sewing, my mother spinning by the light of the fire, he dis- 
coursed, which was unusual with him, upon things and peoples 
and the best form of government, which he held to be a com- 
monwealth, with a strong man for president. But he was to 
hold his power from the people, and was to lay it down fre- 
quently, lest he should in turn be tempted to become a king. 
And if he were to fall away from righteousness, or to live in 
open sin, or to be a merry-maker, or to suffer his country to 
fall from a high place among the nations, he was to be dis- 
placed, and be forced to retire. As for the man Charles, now 
dead, he would become, my father said, an example to all fut- 
ure ages, and a warning of what may happen when the doc- 
trine of Divine Eight is generally accepted and acted upon, the 
king himself being not so much blamed by him as the practice 
of hereditary rule, which caused him to be seated upon the 
throne, when his true place, my father said, was among the 
lackeys and varlets of the palace. His brother James, he 


POB FAITH AND FBEEDOM. 


67 


added, had now an opportunity which occurred to few — for 
he might become another Josiah. But I think he will neg- 
lect that opportunity/^ he concluded; ^^yea, even if Hilkiah 
the priest were to bring him a message from Huldah the 
prophetess; for he doth belong to a family which, by the 
Divine displeasure, can never perceive the truth. Let us now 
read the Word, and wrestle with the Lord in prayer. 

Next we heard that loyal addresses were pouring in from all 
quarters congratulating the king, and promising most sub- 
missive obedience. One would have thought that the people 
were rejoiced at the succession of a Eoman Catholic; it was 
said that the king had promised liberty of conscience unto all, 
that he claimed that liberty for himself, and that he went to 
mass daily and openly. 

But many there were who foresaw trouble. Unfortunately, 
one of them was Sir Christopher, who spoke his mind at all 
times too fiercely for his safety. Mr. Boscorel, also, was of 
opinion that civil war would speedily ensue. 

The hinge’s friends,^^ he said, ‘^may for a time buy the 
support of the Non-conformists, and make a show of religious 
liberty. Thus may they govern for awhile. But it is not in 
the nature of the Eoman Catholic priest to countenance re- 
ligious liberty, or to sit down contented with less than all the 

S ie. They must forever scheme and intrigue for more power. 

:eligious liberty? It means to them the eternal damnation of 
those who hold themselves free to think for themselves. They 
would be less than human if they did not try to save the souls 
of the people by docking their freedom. They must make 
this country even as Spain or Italy. Is it to be believed that 
they will suffer the Church to retain her revenues, or the uni- 
versities to remain out of their control? Nay, will they allow 
the grammar-schools to be in the hands o:^ Protestants? Never! 
The next generation will be wholly Catholic, unless the present 
generation send king and priests packing. 

These were treasonable words, but they were uttered in the 
hall of the Manor House with no other listeners than Sir 
Christopher and the rector. 

^SSeeing these things, son-in-law, said Sir Christopher, 
what becomes of Eight Divine? Where is the duty of non- 
resistance?^^ 

^^The doctrine of Eight Divine, said Mr. Boscorel, in- 
cludes the Divine institution of a monarchy, which, I confess, 
is manifestly untenable, because the Lord granted a king to 
the people only because they clamored for one. Also, had the 
institution been of Divine foundation, the Jews would never 


68 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


have been allowed to live under the rule of judges^ tetrarchs, 
and Eoman governors. 

You have not always spoken so plainly/^ said Sir Christo- 
pher. 

Nay; why be always proclaiming to the world your 
thoughts and opinions? Besides^ even if the doctrine of non- 
resistance were sound, there may be cases in which just laws 
may be justly set aside. I say not that this is one as yet. But 
if there were danger of the ancient superstitions being thrust 
upon us to the destruction of our souls, I say not. Nay; if a 
starving man take a loaf of bread, there being no other way 
possible to save his life, one would not, therefore, hold him a 
thief. Yet the law remains. 

Shall the blood which hath been poured out for the cause 
of liberty prove to be shed in va.in?^^ asked Sir Christopher. 

Why, sir,^"’ said the rector, the same question might be 
asked in France, where the Protestants fought longer and 
against greater odds than we in this country. Yet the blood 
of those martyrs hath been shed in vain; the Church of Eome 
is there the conqueror indeed. It is laid upon the Protestants, 
even upon us, who hold that we are a true branch of the an- 
cient Apostolic Church, to defend ourselves continually against 
an enemy who is always at unity, always guided by one man, 
always knows what he wants, and is always working to get it. 
We, on the other hand, do not know our own minds, and must 
forever be quarreling among ourselves. Nevertheless, the 
heart of the country is Protestant; and sooner or later the case 
of conscience may arise whether — the law remaining unchanged 
— we may not blamelessly break the law?^^ 

That case of conscience was not yet ripe for consideration. 
There needed first many things — including the martyrdom of 
saints and innocent men and poor, ignorant rustics — before 
the country roused herself once more to seize her liberties. 
Then as to that poor doctrine of JJivine Eight, they all made 
a mouthful of it, except only a small and harmless band of 
non- jurors. 

At the outset, whatever the opinions of the people — who 
could not have been made to rise as one man — the gentry re- 
mained loyal. Above all things, they dreaded another civil 
war. 

We must fain accept the king^s professions,^^ said the rec- 
tor. “If we have misgivings, let us disguise them. Let us 
rather nourish the hope that they are honestly meant, and let ' 
us wait. England will not become another Spain in a single 


FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. 


69 


day. Let us wait. The stake is not yet set up in Smithfield, 
and the Inquisition is not yet established in the country. 

It was in this temper that the king^s accession found Sir 
Christopher. Afterward he was accused of having harbored 
designs against the king from the beginning. That, indeed, 
was not the case. He had no thought of entering into any 
such enterprise. Yet he never doubted that in the end there 
would be an uprising against the rule of the priests. Nor did 
he doubt that the king would be pushed on by his advisers to 
one pretension after another for the advancement of his own 
prerogative and. the displacement of the Protestant Church. 
Nay, he openly predicted that there would be such attempts; 
and he maintained — such was his wisdom! — that, in the long- 
run, the Protestant faith would be established upon a surer 
foundation than ever. But as for conspiring, or being cog- 
nizant of any conspiracy, that was untrue. Why, he was at 
this time seventy-five years of age — a time when such men as 
Sir Christopher have continually before their eyes death and 
the judgment. 

As for my father, perhaps I am wrong, but in the daily 
prayers of night and morning, and in the Grace before 
Meat,^"" he seemed to find a freer utterance, and to wrestle 
more vehemently than was his wont on the subject of the Scar- 
let Woman, offering himself as a willing martyr and confessor, 
if by the shedding of his blood the great day of her final over- 
throw might be advanced; yet always humble, not daring to 
think of himself as anything but an instrument to do the will 
of his Master. In the end, his death truly helped, with others, 
to bring a Protestant king to the throne of these isles. And 
Since we knew him to be so deep a scholar, .always reading and 
learning, and in no sense a man of activity, the thing which 
he presently did amazed us all. Yet he ought to have known 
that one who is under the Divine command to preach the Word 
of God, and hath been silenced by man for more than twenty 
years, so that the strength of his manhood hath run to waste 
and is lost (it is a most terrible and grievous thing for a man 
to be condemned to idleness!), may become like unto one of 
those burning mountains of which we sometimes read in books 
of voyages. In him, as in them, the inner fires rage and burn, 
growing ever stronger and fiercer, until presently they rent 
asunder the sides of the mountain and burst forth, pouring 
down liquid fire over the unhappy valleys beneath, with show- 
ers of red-hot ashes to destroy and cover up the smiling home- 
steads and the fertile meadows. 

It is true that my father chafed continually at the inaction 


70 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


forced upon him, but his impatience was never so strong as at 
this time, namely, after the accession of King.^ James. It 
drove him from his books and' out into the fields and lanes, 
where he walked to and fro, waving his long arms, and some- 
times cryiug aloud and shoutingnn the woods, as if compelled 
to cry out in order to quench some raging fever or heat of his 
mind. 

About this time, too, I remember they began ' to talk of the 
exiles who were staying in Holland. The Duw of Monmouth 
was there with the Earl of Argyle, and with thb^m a company 
of firebrands eager to get back to England and their property. 

I am certain now that my father (and perhaps, through his 
information. Sir Christopher also) was kept acquainted with 
the plots and designs that were carried on in the Low Coun- 
tries; nay, I am also certain that his informant was none other 
than Humphrey, who was still in Leyden. I have seen a let- 
ter from him, written, as I now understand, in a kind of alle- 
gory or parable, in which one thing was said and another 
meant. Thus he pretends to speak of Dutch gardening. The 
gardeners, he says, ^Hake infinite pains that their secrets 
shall not be learned or disclosed. I know, however, that a cer- 
tain blue tulip, much desired by many gardeners in England, 
will be taken across the water this year, and I hope that by 
next year the precious bulb may be fully planted in English 
soil. The preparation of the soil necessary for the favorable 
reception of the bulb is well known to you, and you will under- 
stand how to mix your soil, and to add manure, and so forth. 
I myself expect to finish what I have to do in a few weeks, 
when I shall cross to London, and so ride westward, and hope 
to pay my respects to my revered tutor in the month of June 
next. It may be that I shall come with the tulip, but that is 
not certain. Many messages have been received offering large 
sums of money for the bulb, so that it is hoped that the Dutch 
gardeners will let it go. From H. C. 

The tulip, you see, was the Duke of Monmouth, and the 
Dutch gardeners were the Scotch and English exiles then in 
Holland, and the English gardeners were the duke’s friends, 
and H. 0. was Humphrey Challis. 

I think that Sir Christopher must have known of this cor- 
respondence, because I now remember that my father would 
sit with him for many hours looking at a map of England, and 
had been conversing earnestly and making notes in a book. 
These notes he made in the Arabic character, which no one 
but himself could read; I therefore suppose that he was esti- 
mating the number of Non-conformists who might be disposed 


FOE FAITH AKB FKEEDOM. 71 

to aid in such an enterprise as Humphrey's gardeners were 
contemplating. 

Eobin, who certainly was no conspirator^ also wrote a letter 
from Leyden about this time, saying that something was ex- 
pected, nobody knew what, but that the exiles were meeting 
constantly, as if something was brewing. 

It was about the first week of June that the news came to us 
of Lord Argyle^s landing. This was the beginning. After 
that, as you will hear, the news came thick and fast — every 
day something fresh, and something to quicken the most slug- 
gish pulse. To me, at least, it seemed as if the breath of God 
Himself was poured out upon the country, and that the people 
were everywhere resolved to banish the accursed thing from 
their midst. Alas! that simple country maid was deceived. 
The accursed thing was to be driven forth, but not yet. The 
country party hated the pope, but they dreaded civil war — 
and indeed there is hardly any excuse for that most dreadful 
scourge, except the salvation of the soul and the safe-guarding 
of liberties. They would gladly welcome a rising, but it must 
be general and universal. They had for five-and^-twenty years 
been taught the wickedness of rebellion, and now there was no 
way to secure the Protestant faith except by rebellion. Un- 
happily, the rebellion began before the country gentlemen 
were ready to begin. 


CHAPTEE XL 

BEFOEE THE STOEM. 

Befoee the storm breaks there sometimes falls upon the 
earth a brief time when the sun shines in splendor from a 
clear sky, the air is balmy and delightsome, the birds sing in 
the coppice, and the innocent lambs leap in the meadows. 
Then, suddenly, black clouds gather from the north; the wind 
blows cold; in a minute the sky is black; the lightnings flash, 
the thunders roll, the wind roars, the hail beats down and 
strips the orchard of its promise, and silences the birds cower- 
ing in the branches, and drives the trembling sheep to take 
shelter in the hedges. 

This was to be my case. You shall understand how for a 
single day— it was no more— I was the happiest girl in all the 
world. 

I may without any shame confess that I have always loved 
Eobin from my earliest childhood. That was no great won- 
der, seeing what manner of boy he was, and how he was always 


FOB FAITH AND FBEEDOM. 


n 

kind and thoughtful for me. We were at first only brother 
and sister together, which is natural and reasonable when 
children grow up together; nor can I tell when or how we 
ceased to be brother and sister, save that it may have been 
when Eobin kissed me so tenderly at parting, and told me 
that he should always love me. I do not think that brothers 
do generally protest love and promise continual affection. 
Barnaby certainly never declared his love for me, nor did he 
ever promise to love me all his life. Perhaps, had he re- 
mained longer, he might have become as tender as he was 
good-hearted, but I think that tenderness toward a sister is 
not in the nature of a boy. I loved Eobin, and I loved 
Humphrey, both as if they were brothers, but one of them 
ceased to be my brother, while the other, in consequence, re- 
mained my brother always. 

A girl may be ignorant of the world as I was, and of lovers 
and their ways as I was, and yet she can not grow from a 
child to a woman without knowing that when a young man 
who hath promised to love her always speaks of her in every 
letter he means more than common brotherly love. Nor can 
any woman be indifferent to a man who thus regards her; nor 
can she think upon love without the desire of being herself 
loved. Truly, I had always before my eyes the spectacle of 
that holy love which consecrates every part of life. I mean, 
in the case of my mother, whose waking and sleeping thoughts 
were all for her husband, who worked continually and cheer- 
fully with her hands that he might be enabled to study with- 
out other work, and gave up her whole life, without grudging 
— even reckoning it her happiness and her privilege — in order 
to provide food and shelter for him. It was enough reward 
for her that he should sometimes lay his hand lovingly upon 
her head, or turn his eyes with affection to meet hers. 

It was in the night of June 12th, as I lay in bed, not yet 
asleep, though it was already past nine o^clock, that I heard 
the trampling of hoofs crossing the stream and passing our 
cottage. Had I known who were riding those horses there 
would have been but little sleep for me that night. But I 
knew not, and did not suspect, and so, supposing that it was 
only one of the farmers belated, I closed my eyes, and pres- 
ently slept until the morning. 

About five o^clock or a little before that time, I awoke, the 
sun having already arisen, and being now well above the hill. 
I arose softly, leaving my mother asleep still, and having 
dressed quickly, and prayed a little, I crept softly down the 
stairs. In the house there was such a stillness that I could 


FOK FAITH AND FKEEDOM. 


73 


even hear the regular breathing of my father as he slept upon 
his pallet among his books; it was chill and damp, as is the , 
custom in the early morning, in the room where we lived and 
worked. Yet when I threw open door and shutter and looked 
outside the air was full of warmth and refreshment; as for the 
birds, they had long since left their nests, and now were busy 
looking for their breakfast; the larks were singing overhead, 
and the bees already humming and droning. Who would lie 
abed when he could get up and enjoy the beauty of the morn- 
ing? When I had breathed awhile with pleasure and « satis- 
faction the soft air, which was laden with the scent of flowers 
and of hay, I went in-doors again, and swept and dusted the 
room. Then I opened the cupboard, and considered the pro- 
vision for breakfast. For my father there would be a slice of 
cold bacon with a good crust of home-made bread (better bread 
or sweeter bread was nowhere to be had) and a cup of cider, 
warming to the spirits, and good, for one who is no longer 
young, against any rawness, of the morning air. For my 
mother and myself there would be, as soon as our neighbors'^ 
cows were milked, a cup of warm milk and bread soaked in 
it. ^Tis a breakfast good for a grown person as well as for a 
child, and it cost us nothing but the trouble of going to take it. 

When I had swept the room and laid everything in its place, 
I went into the garden, hoe in hand, to weed the beds and trim 
the borders. The garden was not very big, it is true, but it 
produced many things useful for us; notably onions and salad, 
besides many herbs good for the house, for it was a fertile strip 
of ground, and planted in every part of it. Now such was the 
beauty of the morning and the softness of the air that I pres- 
ently forgot the work about which I had come into the garden, 
and sat down in the shade upon a bench, suffering my thoughts 
to wander hither and thither. Much have I always pitied 
those poor folk in towns who can never escape from the noise 
and clatter of tongues and sit somewhere in the sunshine or 
the shade, while the cattle low in the meadows and the sum- 
mer air makes the leaves to rustle, and suffer their thouglits 
to wander here and there. Every morning when I aroserw^ 
this spectacle of Nature ^s gladness presented to my eyes/ but 
not every morning could my spirit, which sometimes crawife ^s 
if fearing the light of day and the face of the sun, rise td nieefc 
and greet it, and feel it calling aloud for a hymn of prai^'and 
thanksgiving. For, indeed, this is a beautiful world, 
could always suffer its loveliness, which we can not,: for th^ 
earthliness of our natures, to sink into our hearts, I kflo^ 
not what I thought this morning, but I remember, y^hile I 


74 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


considered the birds, which neither reap nor sow, nor take 
any thought of to-morrow, yet are daily fed by Heaven, that 
the words were whispered in mine ear: Are ye not much 
better than they?'’^ This, without doubt, prepared my heart 
for what should follow. 

While I sat thinking of I know not what, there came foot- 
steps — quick footsteps— along the road, and I knew those 
footsteps, and sprung to my feet, and ran to the garden gate, 
crying, Eobin! — it is Eobin!^^ 

Yes, it was Eobin. 

He seized me by both hands, looking in my face curiously 
and eagerly. 

Grace!^^ he said, drawing a deep breath. Oh, but wiat 
hath happened to thee?"'^ 

What should happen, Eobin?^^ 

Oh, thou art changed, Grace! I left thee almost a child, 
and now — now — 1 thought to catch thee in my arms — a sweet 
rustic nymph — and now — fain must I go upon my knees to a 
goddess. 

‘‘ Eobin Who, indeed, would have expected such lan- 
guage from Eobin? 

Grace,^^ he said, still gazing upon me with a kind of 
wonder which made me blush, do you remember when we 
parted four years ago — the words we said? As for me, I have 
never forgotten them. I was to think of thee always; I was 
to love thee always. Truly I may say that there is never a 
daylDut thou hast been in my mind. But not like this — 
He continued to look upon me as upon some strange creature, 
so that I began to be frightened and turned away. 

Nay, Grace, forgive me. I am one who is dazzled by the 
splendor of the sun. Forgive me; I can not speak. I thought 
of a village beauty, rosy-cheeked, sweet and wholesome as an 
August quarander, and I find — 

Eobin — not a goddess. 

Well, then, a woman tall and stately, and more beautiful 
than words can say.^^ 

Nay, Eobin, you do but flatter. That is not like the old 
Eobin I remember and — I should have added loved, 
but the word stuck. 

swear, sweet saint — if I may swear — nay, then I do 
affirm, that I do not flatter. Hear me tell a plain tale. I 
have traveled far since last I saw thee; I have seen the great 
ladies of the court both of St. Jameses and of the Louvre; I 
have seen the famous beauties of Provence, and the black-eyed 


FOR FAITH AiSrO FREEDOM. 75 

witches of Italy^ but nowhere have I seen a woman half so 
fair. 

Eobin — you must not. Nay^ Eobin — you shame me.^^ 

Then he knelt at my feet and seized my hand and kissed it. 
Oh, the foolishness of a man in love. And yet it pleases us. 
No woman is worth it. No woman can understand it, nor 
can she comprehend the power and might of man^s love, nor 
why he singles out her alone from all the rest and fills his 
heart wholly with her, so that all other women are hence- 
forward as his sisters. It is wonderful; it is most wonderful. 
Yet it pleases us. Nay, we thank God for it with all our 
heart and with all our soul. 

I would not, if I could, set down all thQ things which Eobin 
said. First, because the words of love are sacred; next, be- 
cause I would not that other women should know the extrava- 
gance of his praise. It was in broken words, because love can 
never be eloquent. 

As for me, what could I do, what could I say? For I had 
loved him from my very childhood, and now all my heart 
went out from me and became his. I was all his. I was his 
slave to command. That is the quality of earthly love by 
which it most closely resembles the heavenly love, so that just 
as the godly man is wholly devoted to the will of the Lord in 
all things great and small, resigned to His chastisements, and 
always anxious to live and die in His service, so in earthly love 
one must be wholly devoted to the person whom one loves. 

And Eobin was come home again, and I was lying in his 
arms, and he was kissing me, and calling me all the sweet and 
tender things that he could invent, and laughing and sighing 
together as if too happy to be quiet. Oh, the sweetest mo- 
ments of my life! "Why did they pass so quickly? Oh, sacra- 
ment of love, which can be taken only once, and yet changes 
the whole of life and fills it with memory which is wholly 
sweet! In all other earthly things there is something of bitter- 
ness. In this holy joy of pure and sacred love there is no 
bitterness — no, not any. It leaves behind nothing of reproach 
or of repentance, of shame or of sorrow. It is altogether 
holy. 

Now, when my boy had somewhat recovered from his first 
rapture, and I had assured him very earnestly that I was not, 
indeed, an angel, but a most sinful woman, daily offending 
in my inner thoughts (which he received, indeed, with an ap- 
pearance of disbelief and scorn), I was able to consider his 
appearance, which was now very fine, though always, as I 
learned when I saw him among other gentlemen, with some 


76 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


soberness, as became one whose upbringing inclined him to 
soberness of dress as well as of speech and manner. He wore 
a long wig of brown hair, which might have been his own but 
for its length; his hat was laced and cocked, which gave him 
a gallant and martial appearance; his neckcloth was long and 
of fine lace; beside him in my russet gown I must have looked 
truly plain and rustic, but Eobin was pleased not to think so, 
and love is a great magician to cheat the eyes. 

He was home again; he told me he should travel no more 
(yet you shall hear how far he afterward traveled); his only 
desire now was to stay at home and live as his grandfather 
had lived, in his native village; he had nothing to pray for 
but the continuance of my love — of which, indeed, there was 
no doubt possible. 

It was now close upon six o^clock, and I begged him to go 
away for the present, and if my father and Sir Christopher 
should agree, and if it should seem to his honor a fit and 
proper thing that Eobin should marry a girl so penniless as 
myself, why — then — we might meet again after breakfast, or 
after dinner; or, indeed, at any other time, and so discourse 
more upon the matter. So he left me, being very reluctant 
to go; and I, forgetting my garden and what I had come 
forth to do, returned to the house. 

You must understand that all these things passed in the 
garden, divided from the lane by a thick hedge, and that 
passers-by — but there were none — could not very well have 
seen what was done, though they might have heard what was 
said. But if my father had looked out of his window he could 
have seen, and if my mother had come down-stairs she almost 
might have seen through the window, or through the open 
door. Of this I thought not upon, nor was there anything to 
hide — though one would not willingly suffer any one, even 
one^s own mother — to see and listen at such a moment. Yet 
mother has since told me that she saw Eobin on his knees kiss- 
ing my hands, but she withdrew and would not look again. 

When I stepped within the door she was at work with her 
wheel, and looked up with a smile upon her lips, and tears 
were in her eyes. Had I known what she had seen I should 
have been ashamed. 

Daughter, she said, softly, thy cheek is burning red. 
Hast thou, perchance, been too long in the sun?’^ 

No, mother; the sun is not too hot.^^ 

Daughter, she went on, still smiling through tears, 
thine eyes are bright and glowing. Hast thou a touch of 
fever by ill chance?^^ 


FOR FAITH AKD FREEDOM. 77 

No, mother, I have no fever/'’ 

Child, thy lips are trembling and thy hands are shaking* 
My dear, my dear, what is it? Tell thy mother all/'’ 

She held out her arms to me, and I threw myself at her feet 
and buried my head in her lap, as if I had been again a child. 

Mother, mother I cried^ Eobin hath come home again, 
and he says he loves me, and nothing will do but he must 
marry me/^ 

My. dear, she said, kissing and fondling me, ‘‘Eobin 
hath always been a good lad, and I doubt not that he hath 
returned unspotted from the world; but nay, do not let us be 
too sure. For, first, his honor must consent, and then 
madame; and thy father must be asked, and he would never, 
for any worldly honor, suffer thee to marry an .ungodly man. 
As for thy lack of fortune, I know not if it will stand in the 
way, and as for family, thy father, though he was born in 
New England, cometh of a good stock, and I myself am a 
gentlewoman, and on both sides we bear an ancient coat of 
arms. And as for thyself, my dear, thou art — I thank God 
for it — of a sweet temper and an obedient disposition. Prom 
the earliest thou hast never given thy mother any uneasiness, 
and I think thy heart . hath been mercifully disposed toward 
goodness from thy childhood upward. It is a special grace in 
this our long poverty and oppression, and it consoles me partly 
for the loss of my son Bafnaby. Here she was silent for a 
space, and her eyes filled and brimmed over. “ Child, she 
said, earnestly, “ thou art comely in the eyes of men; that 
have I known for long. It is partly for thy sweet looks that 
Sir Christopher loves thee; Mr. Boscorel plays music with thee 
because his eyes love to behold the beauty of woman. Nay, I 
mean no reproach, because it is the nature of men to love all 
things beautiful, whether it be the plumage of a bird or the 
shape of a woman '’s head. Yes, thou art beautiful, my dear. 
Beauty passes, but love remains. Thy husband will per- 
chance never cease to think thee lovely if he still proves daily 
thy goodness and the loveliness of thy heart. My dear, thou 
hast long comforted thy mother; now shalt thou go, with the 
blessing of the Lord, to be the solace and the joy of thy hus- 
band.'’^ 


CHAPTEE XII. 

HUMPHREY. 

Presently my father came in, the Bible in his hand. By 
his countenance it was plain that he had been already engaged 


78 S-OK FAITH AKD FREEDOM. 

in meditation, and that his mind was charged as with a 
message. 

Alas! to think of the many great discourses that he pro- 
nounced (being as a dog who must be muzzled should he leave 
the farm-yard) to us women alone. If they were written down 
the world would lift up its hands with wonder, and ask if a 
prophet indeed had been vouchsafed to this unhappy country. 
The Eoman Church will have that the time of saints did not 
end with the last of the Apostles; that may be, and yet a saint 
has no more power after death than remains in his written 
words and in the memory of his life. Shall we not, however, 
grant that there may still be prophets, who see and apprehend 
the meaning of words and of things more fully than others 
even as spiritually minded as themselves? Now, I say, con- 
sidering what was immediately to befall us, the passage which 
my father read and expounded that morning was in a manner 
truly prophetic. It was the vision of the basket of summer 
fruit, which was vouchsafed to the prophet Amos. He read to 
us that terrible chapter — everybody knows it, though it hath 
but fourteen verses: 

And I will turn your feasts into mourning, and all your 
songs into lamentation — I will send a famine in the land, not 
a famine of bread, nor a thirst for water, but of hearing the 
words of the Lord.^^ 

He then applied the chapter to these times, saying that the 
Scriptures and the prophecies apply not only to the Israel of 
the time when Amos or any other prophet lived, but to the 
people of God in all ages, yet so that sometimes one prophet 
seems to deliver the message that befits the time, and some- 
times another. All these things prophesied by Amos had 
come to pass in this country of Great Britain, so that there 
was, and had now been for twenty-five years, a grievous 
famine and a sore thirst for the words of the Lord. He con- 
tinued to explain and to enlarge upon this topic for nearly an 
hour, when he concluded with a fervent prayer that the famine 
would pass away, and the sealed springs be open again for the 
children of grace to drink and be refreshed. 

This done he took his breakfast in silence, as was his wont, 
loving not to be disturbed by any earthly matters when his 
mind was full of his morning discourse. When he had eaten 
the bread and meat and taken the cup of cider, he arose and 
went back to his own room, and shut the door. We should 
have no more speech of him until dinner-time. 

I will speak with him, my dear,^^ said my mother; but 
not yet. Let us wait till we hear from Sir Christopher. 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


79 


would that my father had read us a passage of en- 
couragement and promise on this morning of all mornings/^ 
1 said. 

My mother turned over the leaves of the Bible. I will 
read you a verse of encouragement/'' she said. It is the 
word of God as much as the Book of the Prophet Amos.^^ So 
she found and read for my comfort words which had a new 
meaning to me: 

My beloved spake, and said unto me, ^ Eise up, my love, 
my fair one, and come away. For, lo, the winter is past, the 
rain is over and gone; the flowers appear on the earth; the 
time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle 
is heard in our land; the flg-tree putteth forth her green flgs, 
and the vines with the tender grape give a good smell. Arise, 
my love, my fair one, and come away. ^ 

And again, these that follow: 

Set me as a seal upon thine heart, as a seal upon thine 
arm, for love is strong as death; jealousy is cruel as the grave; 
the coals thereof are coals of Are, which hath a most vehement 
flame. Many waters can not quench love, neither can the 
floods drown it; if a man would give all the substance of his 
house for love, it would utterly be contemned. 

In these gracious, nay, these enraptured, words doth the 
Bible speak of love, and though I am not so ignorant as not 
to know that it is the love of the Church for Christ, yet I am 
persuaded by my own spiritual experience — whatever doctors 
of divinity may argue — that the earthly love of husband and 
wife may be spoken of in these very words as being the type of 
that other and higher love. And in this matter I know that 
my mother would also confirm my judgment. 

It might have been between nine and ten that Humphrey 
came. Surely he was changed more than Eobin; for the great 
white periwig which he wore (being a physician), falling upon 
his shoulders, did partly hide the deformity of his shoulder, 
and the black velvet coat did also become him mightily. As 
for his face, that was not changed at all. It had been grave 
and serious in youth; it was now more grave and more serious 
in manhood. He stood in the doorway, not seeing me — I was 
making a pudding for dinner, with my sleeves rolled up and 
my arms white with flour. 

Mistress Eykin,^" he said, are old friends passed out of 
mind?^" 

Why — my mother left her wheel and gave him her 
handr~‘^ ^tis Humphrey. I knew that we should see thee this 


80 


FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM, 


morning, Humphrey. Is thy health good, my son, and is all 
well with thee?"^ 

All is well, madame, and my health is good. How is my 
master — thy husband?^^ 

' He is always well, and — but thou knowest what manner 
of life he leads. Of late he hath been much disquieted; he is 
restless — his mind runs much upon the prophecies of war and 
pestilence. It is the news from London and the return of the 
mass which keep him uneasy. Go in and see him, Humphrey. 
He will willingly suffer thee to disturb him, though we must 
not go near him in his hours of study. 

Presently; but where is my old playfellow? — where is 
Grace 

She is behind you, Humphrey. 

He turned, and his pale face flushed when he saw me. 

Grace?^^ he cried. Is this Grace? Nay, she is changed, 
indeed. I knew not — I could not expect — nay, how could one 
expect — 

There is no change, said my mother, sharply. Grace 
was a child, and is now a woman; that is all.^'’ 

Humphrey expects, I said, that we should all stop still 
while time went on. You were to become a bachelor of medi- 
cine, sir, and a Fellow of All Souls^ College, and to travel in 
Italy and France, and to come back in a velvet coat, and a 
long sword, and a periwig over your shoulders, and I was to 
be a little girl still. 

Humphrey shook his head. 

It is not only that,^"" he said, though I confess that one 
did not make due allowance for the flight of time. It is that 
the sweet-faced child has become — 

No, Humphrey,'’^ I said. I want no compliments. Go 
now, sir, and speak with my father. Afterward you shall tell 
me all that you have been doing. 

He obeyed, and opened my father’s door. 

‘‘ Humphrey!” My father sprung to his feet. Welcome, 
my pupil! Thou bringest good news? Nay; I have received 
thy letters; I read the good news in thy face — I see it in thine 
eyes. Welcome home!’’ 

Sir, I have, indeed, great news,” said Humphrey. 

Then the door was closed. 

He stayed there for -half an hour and more, and we heard 
from within earnest talk — my father’s voice sometimes up- 
lifted, loud and angry, but Humphrey’s always low, as if he 
did not wish us to overhear them. So, not to seem unto each 
other as if we were listening, mother and I talked of other 


FOR FAITH AHB FREEDOM. 


81 


things, such as the lightness of the pudding, and the quantity 
of suet which should be put into it, and the time it should boil 
in the pot, and other things, as women can whose hearts are 
full, yet they must needs be talking. 

Father hath much to say to Humphrey/^ I said, after a 
time; he did not use to like such interruption.'’^ 

Humphrey’s conversation is no interruption, my dear. 
They think the same thoughts and talk the same language. 
Your father may teach and admonish us, but he can only con- 
verse with a scholar such as himself. It is not the least evil 
of our oppression that he hath been cut off from the society of 
learned men, in which he used to take so much delight. If 
Humphrey remains here a little while you shall see your father 
lose the eager and anxious look which hath of late possessed 
him. He will talk to Humphrey, and will clear his mind. 
Then he will be contented again for a while, or, at least, re- 
signed. ” 

Presently Humphrey came forth. His face was grave and 
serious. My father came out of the room after him. 

Let us talk more,” he said; ‘‘let us resume our talk. 
Join me on the hill-side, where none can hear us. It is, in- 
deed, the vision of the basket of summer fruit that we read 
this morning.” His face was working with some inward ex- 
citement, and his eyes were full of a strange light as of a glad 
conqueror, or of one — forbid the thought — who was taking a 
dire revenge. He strode down the garden and out into the 
lanes. 

“ Thus,” said my mother, “ will he walk out, and some- 
times remain in the woods, walking, preaching to the winds, 
and swinging his arms the whole day long. Art thou a phy- 
sician, and canst thou heal him, Humphrey.^” 

“ If the cause be removed the disease will be cured. Per- 
haps before long the cause will be removed. ” 

“The cause — oh, the cause! — what is the cause but the 
tyranny of the law? He who was ordered by Heaven itself to 
preach is silent for five-and-twenty years. His very life hath 
been taken from him. And you talk of removing the cause!” 

‘ ‘ Madame, if the law suffer him once more to preach freely 
would that satisfy him — and you?” 

My mother shook her head. “The law, the law,” she 
said, “ now we have a Papist on the throne, it is far more 
likely to lead my husband to the stake than to set him free. ” 

“ That we shall shortly see,” said Humphrey. 

My mother bent her head over her wheel as one who wishes 


82 


FOB FAITH AHD FBEEDOM. 


to talk no more upon the subject. She loved not to speak 
concerning her husband to any except to me. 

I went out into the garden with Humphrey. I was foolish. 
I laughed at nothing. I talked nonsense. Oh, I was so 
happy that if a pipe and tabor had been heard in the village I 
should have danced to the music, like poor Barnaby the night 
before he ran away. I regarded not the grave and serious face 
of my companion. 

You are merry, Grace, said Humphrey. 

“ It is because you are come back again — you and Robin. 
Oh, the time has been long and dull — and now you have come 
we shall all be happy again. Yes, my father will cease to fret 
and rage; he will talk Latin and Greek with you; Sir Christo- 
pher will be happy only in looking upon you; madame will 
have her son home again, and Mr. Boscorel will bring out all 
the old music for you. Humphrey, it is a happy day that 
brings you home again. 

It may be a happy day also for me,^^ he said, but there 
is much to be done. When the business we have in hand is 
accomplish ed — ’ ^ 

What business, Humphrey?^^ For he spoke so gravely 
that he startled me. 

^Tis business of which my father knows, child. Nay, let 
us not talk of it. I think and hope that it is as good as ac- 
complished now before it is well taken in hand. It is not of 
that business that I would speak. Grace, thou art so beauti- 
ful and so tall — 

“ Nay, Humphrey. I must not be flattered.''^ 

“ And I so crooked."^’ 

“ Humphrey, I will not hear this talk. You, so great a 
scholar, thus to speak of yourself.’^ 

“ Let me speak of myself, my dear. Hear me for a mo- 
ment. I declare that I had not the least thought of what he 
was going to say, my mind being wholly occupied with the 
idea of Robin. 

I am a physician, as you doubtless know. MedicinaB doc- 
tor of Oxford, of Padua, Montpellier, and Leyden. I know 
all — I may fairly say, and without boasting — that may be 
learned »y one of my age from s(‘Lools of medicine and from 
books on the science and practice of healing. I believe, in 
short, that I am as good a physician as can be found within these 
seas. I am, minded, as soon as tranquillity is restored, to set 
up as a physician in London, where I have already many 
friends, and am assured of some support. I think, humbiy 


von Mitvl akd freedom. 


63 

Speaking, that reasonable success awaits me. Grace — ^you 
know that I have loved you all my life — ^will you marry me, 
crooked as I am? Oh, you can not but know that I have 
loved you all my life. Oh, child he stretched forth his 
hands, and in his eyes there was a world of longing and of 
sadness which moved my heart. My dear, the crooked in 
body have no friends among men; they can not join in their 
rough sports, nor drink with them, nor fight with them. 
They have no chance of happiness but in love, my dear. My 
dear, give me that chance. I love thee. Oh, my dear, give 
me that chance. 

Never had I seen Humphrey so moved before. I felt guilty 
and ashamed in the presence of this passion of which I was the 
. most unworthy cause. 

^^Oh, Humphrey, stop! for Heaven^s sake stop! because I 
am but this very morning promised to Eobin, who loves me, 
too, and I love Eobin, Humphrey. He sunk back, pale and 
disordered, and I thought that he would swoon, but he re- 
covered. Humphrey, never doubt that I love you, too, but 
oh, I love Eobin, and Eobin loves me.""^ 

Yes, dear— yes, child — ^yes, Grace,"^^ he said, in broken 
accents. I understand; everything is for Eobin — everything 
for Eobin. Why, I might have guessed it. For Eobin, the 
straight and comely figure; for EoMn, the strength; for Eobin, 
the inheritance; for Eobin, happy love. For me, a crooked 
body; for me, a feeble frame; for me, the loss of fortune; for 
me, contempt and poverty; for me, the loss of love. All for 
Eobin — all for Eobin. 

Humphrey, surely thou wouldst not envy or be jealous of 
Eobin?’’ 

Never had I seen him thus moved, or heard him thus speak. 
He made no answer for a while; then he said, slowly and 
painfully: Grace, I am ashamed. Why should not Eobin 

have all? Who am I that I should have anything? Forgive 
me, child. I have lived in a paradise which fools create for 
themselves. I have suffered myself to dream that what I 
ardently desired was possible, and even probable. Forgive 
me! Let me be as before — your brother. Will you forgive 
me, dear?” 

Oh, Humphrey, there is nothing for me to forgive.” 

Nay, there is much for me to repent of. Forint it, then, 
if there is nothing to forgive.” 

I have forgo t^ten it already, Humphrey.” 

So ” — he turned upon me his grave, sweet face, to think 
of it makes me yearn with tenderness and pity to see that face 


84 


POK FAITH AKD FREEDOM. 


again — so^ farewell, fond dream. Do not think, my dear, 
that I envy Eobin. ^Twas a sweet dream. Yet, I pray that 
Heaven in wrath may forget me if ever I sulfer this passion of 
envy to hurt my cousin Eobin or thyself. 

So saying he burst from me with distraction in his face. 
Poor Humphrey! Alas! when I look back and consider this 
day there is a doubt which haunts me. Always had I loved 
Eobin; that is most true. But I had always loved Humphrey; 
that is most true. What if it had been Humphrey instead of 
Eobin who had arisen in the early morning to find his sweet- 
heart in the garden when the dew was yet upon the grass? 


CHAPTEE XIII. 

ONE DAY. 

Ih times of great sorrow the godly person ought to look for- 
ward to the never-ending joy and happiness that will follow 
this short life. Yet we still look backward to the happy time 
that is past and can never come again. And then how happy 
does it seem to have been in comparison with present affliction! 

It pleased Heaven after many trials to restore my earthly hap- 
piness — at least, in its principal part, which is earthly love. 
Some losses — grievous and lamentable — there were which could 
not be restored. Yet for a long time I had no other comfort 
(apart from that hope which I trust was never suffered to harm 
me) than the recollection of a single day from dewy morn till 
dusky eve. I began that day with the sweetest joy that a girl 
can ever experience — namely, the return of her lover and the 
happiness of learning that he loves her more than ever, and 
the knowledge that her heart hath gone forth from her and is 
wholly his. To such a girl the woods and fields become the 
very Garden of Eden; the breath of the wind is as the voice of 
the Lord blessing another Eve; the very showers are the tears 
of gladness and gratitude; the birds sing hymns of praise; the 
leaves of the trees whisper words of love; the brook prattles of 
kisses; the fiowers offer incense; the royal course of the sun in 
splendor, the glories of the sunrise and sunset, the twinkling 
stars of night, the shadows of the flying clouds, the pageant of 
the summer day — these are all prepared for that one happy 
girl and for her happy lover! Oh, divine gift of love! which 
thus gives the whole world with its fruits in season to the pair! 
Nay, doth it not create them anew? What was Adam without 
Eve? And was not Eve created for no other purpose than to 
be a companion to the man? 


FOE FAITH AKD FEEEDOM. 


85 


I say, then, that this day, when Robin took me in his arms 
and kissed me — not as he had done when we parted and I was 
still a child, but with the fervent kiss of a lover — was the hap- 
piest day in all my life. I say that I have never forgotten that 
day, but, by recalling any point of it, I remember all: how he 
held my hand and how he made me confess that I loved him; 
how we kissed and parted, to meet again. As for poor Hum- 
phrey, I hardly gave him so much as a thought of pity. Then, 
how we wandered along the brook hand in hand. 

Never to part again, my dear,""^ said the fond lover. 

Here will we live, and here we will die. Let Benjamin be- 
come, if he please, lord chancellor, and Humphrey a great 
physician; they will have to live among men in towns, where 
every other man is a rogue. We shall live in this sweet coun- 
try place, where the people may be rude, but they are not 
knaves. Why, in that great city of London, where the mer- 
chants congregate upon the Exchange and look so full of dig- 
nity and wisdom, each man is thinking all the time that, if he 
fail to overreach his neighbor, that neighbor will overreach 
him. Who would live such a life when he can pass it in the 
fields with such a companion as my Grace?^^ 

The pleasures of London had only increased his thirst for 
the country life. Surely never was seen a swain more truly 
rustic in all his thoughts. The fine ladies at the play-house, 
with their painted fans, made him think of one who wore a 
russet frock in Somersetshire, and did not paint her sweet face 
— this was the way he talked. The plays they acted could 
never even be read, much less witnessed, by that dear girl — so 
full of wickedness they were. At the assemblies the ladies 
were jealous of each other, and had scornful looks when one 
seemed preferred; at the taverns the men drank and bellowed 
songs and quarreled; in the streets 'they fought and took the 
wall and swaggered; there was nothing but fighting among the 
baser sort, with horrid imprecations; at the coffee-house the 
politicians argued and quarreled. Nay, in the very churches 
the sermons were political arguments, and while the clergy- 
man read his discourse the gallants ogled the ladies. All this 
and more he told me. 

To hear my boy, one would think there was nothing in Lon- 
don but what was wicked and odious. No doubt it is a wicked 
place, where many men live together; those who are wicked 
easily find each other out, and are encouraged in their wicked- 
ness. Yet there must be many honest and God-fearing per- 
sons, otherwise the judgment of Heaven would again fall upon 
that city as it did in the time of plague and in the Great Fire, 


86 


I'OR FAITH AKD FREEDOM. 


My pretty Puritan/'’ said Eobin, I am now come away 
from that place, and I hope never to see it again. Oh, native 
hills, I salute you! Oh, woods and meadows, I have returned, 
to wander again in your delightful shade Then, which was 
unusual in my boy, and would have better become Mr. Bos- 
corel or Humphrey, he began to repeat verses. I knew not 
that he had ever learned any: 

' ‘ As I range these spacious fields, 

Feast on all that Nature yields, 

Everything inspires delight, 

Charms my smell, my taste, my sight; 

Every rural sound I hear 
Soothes my soul and tunes my ear/’ 

I do not know where Eobin found these verses, but as he re- 
peated them, waving his arm around, I thought that Hum- 
phrey himself never made sweeter lines. 

He then told me how Humphrey would certainly become the 
most learned physician of the time, and that he was already 
master of a polite and dignified manner which would procure 
him the patronage of the great and the confidence of all. It 
was pleasant to hear him praise his cousin without jealousy or 
envy. To be sure, he knew not then — though afterward I told 
him — that Humphrey was his rival. Even had he known this, 
such was the candor of my Eobin and the integrity of his soul 
that he would have praised him even more loudly. 

One must not repeat more of the kind and lovely things that 
the dear boy said while we strolled together by the brook-side. 

While we walked — Twas in the forenoon, after Humphrey's 
visit — Sir Christopher, his grandfather, in his best coat and his 
gold-laced hat, which he commonly kept for church, and ac- 
companied by madame, walked from the Manor House through 
the village till they came to our cottage. Then, with great 
ceremony, they entered. Sir Christopher bowing low and ma- 
dame dropping a deep courtesy to my mother, who sat humbly 
at her wheel. 

Madame, said Sir Christopher, we would, with your 
permission, say a few words with the learned Doctor Eykin 
and yourself. 

My father, who had now returned and was in his room, 
came forth when he was called. His face had recovered some- 
thing of its serenity, but his eyes were still ti’oubled. Madame 
sat down, but Sir Christopher and my father stood. 

Sir,^^ said his honor, I will proceed straight to the point. 
My grandson desires to marry your daughter. Eobin is a good 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


87 


lad; not a scholar if you will; for his religion^ the root of the 
matter, is in him; for the goodness of his heart, I will answer; 
for his habit of life, he hath, so far as we can learn, acquired 
no vile vices of the city — he doth neither drink nor gamble, 
nor waste his health and strength in riotoqj^ living; and for his 
means, they are my own. All that I have will be his. '’Tis 
no great estate, but ^twill serve him as it hath served me. 
Doctor Eykin, the boy^s mother and I have come to ask your 
daughter in marriage. We know her worth, and we are well 
satisfied that our boy hath made so good and wise a choice. 

They were marrying and giving in marriage when the 
Flood came; they will be marrying and giving in marriage in 
the great day of the Lord, said my father. 

Yes, gossip; but that is no reason why they should not be 
marrying and giving in marriage. 

You ask my consent?^^ said my father. This surprises 
me. The child is too young: she is not yet of marriageable 
age— 

Husband, she is nigh upon her twentieth birthday!^^ 

I thought she had been but twelve or thereabouts! My 
consent? Why, Sir Christopher, in the eyes of the world this 
is a great condescension on your part to take a penniless girl. 
I looked, I suppose, to the marriage of my daughter some time 
— perhaps to a farmer— yes — yes, we are told that a virtuous 
woman hath a price far above rubies; and that it is she who 
buildeth up the house, and we are nowhere told that she must 
bring her husband a purse of gold. Sir Christopher, it would 
be the blackest ingratitude in us to deny you anything, even 
if this thing were against the mind of our daughter. 

It is not — it is not,^^ said my mother. 

Wherefore, seeing that the young man is a good man as 
youths go, though in the matter of the S3rntax he hath yet 
much to learn; and that his heart is disposed toward religion, 
I am right glad that he should take our girl to wife.^*^ 

Bravely said!^^ cried Sir Christopher. Hands upon it, 
man! And we will have a merry wedding. But to-day I bid 
you both to come and feast with us. We will have holiday 
and rejoicing.''^ 

Yes,'’^ said my father, we will feast, though to-morrow 
comes the Deluge. I know now what he meant, but at that 
time we knew not, and it seemed to his honor a poor way of 
rejoicing at the return of the boys and the betrothal of his 
daughter thus to be foretelling woes. The vision of the 
plumb-line is before mine eyes,^^ my father went on. Is the 
land able to bear all this? We talk of feasting and of mar- 


88 


FOR FAITH AKD FREEDOM. 


riages. Yet a few days, or perhaps already — But we will 
rejoice together, my old friend and benefactor; we will rejoice 
together. With these words he turned and went back to his 
room, and, after some tears with my mother, madame went 
home and Sir Chrigtopher with her. But in honor to the day 
he kept on his best coat. 

Eobin suffered me to go home, but only that I might put 
on my best frock (I had but two) and make my hair straight, 
which had been blown into curls, as was the way with my hair. 
And then, learning from my mother with the utmost satisfac- 
tion what had passed, he led me by the hand, as if I were 
already his bride, and so to the Manor House, where first Sir 
Christopher saluted me with great kindness, calling me his 
dear granddaughter, and saying that next to Eobin’ s safe re- 
turn he asked for nothing more than to see me Eobin ’s wife. 
And madame kissed me, with tears in her eyes, and said that 
she could desire nothing better for her son, and that she was 
sure I should do my best endeavors to make the boy happy. 
Then Humphrey, as quietly as if he had not also asked me to 
be his wife, kissed my hand, and wished me joy; and Mr. Bos- 
corel also kissed me, and declared that Eobin ought to be the 
happiest dog on earth. And so we sat down to our feast. 

The conversation at dinner was graver than the occasion 
demanded; for though our travelers continually answered 
questions about the foreign lands and peoples they had seen, 
yet the subject returned always to the condition of the coun- 
try, and to what would happen. 

After dinner we sat in the garden, and the gentlemen began 
to talk of right Divine and of non-resistance — and here it 
seemed to me as if Mr. Boscorel was looking on as from an 
eminence apart; for when he had once stated the texts and 
arguments upon which the High Church party do most rely, 
he retired and made no further objections, listening in silence 
while my father held forth upon the duty of rising against 
wicked princes. At last, however, being challenged to reply 
by Humphrey, Mr. Boscorel then made answer: 

The doctrine that subjects may or may not rebel against 
their sovereign is one which I regard with interest so long as it 
remains a question of logic and argument only. Unfortunate- 
ly, the times are such that we may be called upon to make a 
practical application of it: in which case there may follow 
once more civil war, with hard knocks on both sides, and much 
loss of things temporal. Wherefore to my learned brother’s 
arguments, which I admit to be plau'sible, I will, for the pres- 
ent, offer no reply, except to pray Jleaven that the occasion 


FOR FAITH AKl) FREEDOM. 89 

may not arise of converting a disputed doctrine into a rule of 
conduct. 

Alas! even while bespoke the messenger was speeding swift- 
ly toward us who was to call upon all present to take a side. 

The question is now, I hope, decided forever; but many 
men had first to die. It was not decided then, but three years 
later, when King William cut the knot, and, with the applause 
of the nation, pulled down his father-in-law and mounted the 
throne himself with his gracious consort. We are agreed, at 
last, that kings, like judges, generals, and all great officers of 
state, are to hold their, offices in good behavior. If they enter 
into machinations against the liberty of the people and desert 
the national religion, they must descend and let another take 
their place. But before that right could be established for the 
country, streams of blood must first flow. 

While they talked, we —I mean madame, my mother, and 
myself — sat and listened. But my mind was full of another 
subject, and I heard but little of what was said, noting chiefly 
the fiery ardor of my father and the careless grace of Mr. Bos- 
corel. 

Presently my father, who was never easy in the company of 
Mr. Boscorel — (so oil and water will not agree to fill a cup in 
friendship) — and, besides, being anxious to rejoin the society 
of his books, arose and went away, and with him my mother — 
he, in his ragged cassock, who was a learned scholar; she, in 
her plain homespun, who was a gentlewoman by birth. Often 
had I thought of our poverty with bitterness. But now it was 
with a softened heart that I saw them walk side by side across 
the lawns. For now I understood plainly — and for the first 
time — how love can strengthen and console. My mother was 
poor but she was not therefore unhappy. 

Mr. Boscorel also rose and went away with Humphrey. ‘ 
They went to talk of things more interesting to the rector than 
the doctrine of non-resistance: of painting, namely, and statu- 
ary and models. And when we presently walked from the 
rectory gardens we heard a most gladsome scraping of fiddle- 
strings within, which showed that the worthy man was making 
the most of Humphrey's return. 

When Sir Christopher had taken his pipe of tobacco he fell 
asleep. Eobin and I walked in the garden and renewed our 
vows. Needs must that I should tell him all that I had done 
or thought since he went away. As if the simple thoughts of 
a country maid should be of interest to a man! Yet he seemed 
pleased to question and to listen, and presently broke into a 
rapture, swearing that he was in love with an angel. Young 


90 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


lovers may, it is feared, fall into grievous sin by permitting 
themselves these extravagances of speech and thought; yet it 
is hard to keep them sober, and besides (because every sin in 
man meeteth with its correspondent in woman), if the lover be 
extravagant, the maiden takes pleasure in his extravagance. 
To call a mortal, full of imperfections, an angel, is little short 
of blasphemy. Yet I heard it with, I confess, a secret pleas- 
ure. We know ourselves and the truth concerning ourselves; 
we do not deceive ourselves as to our imperfections; yet we 
are pleased that our lovers should so speak and think of us as 
if we were angels indeed. 

Eobin told me, presently ceasing his extravagances for 
awhile, that he was certain something violent was on foot. 
To be sure, everybody expected so much. He said, moreover, 
that he believed Humphrey had certain knowledge of what was 
going to happen; that before they left the Low Countries 
Humphrey had been present at a meeting of the exiles in Kot- 
terdam, where it was well known that Lord Argyll’s expedi- 
tion was resolved upon; that he had been much engaged in 
London after their return, and had paid many visits, the nat- 
ure of which he kept secret; and that on the road there was 
not a town and scarcely a village where Humphrey had not 
some one to visit. 

‘‘ My dear,” he said, Humphrey is slight as to stature and 
strength, but he carries a stout heart. There is no man more 
bitter against the king than he, and none more able if his 
counsels were listened to. Monmouth, I am certain, purposes 
to head an expedition into England like that of Lord Argyll in 
Scotland. The history of England hath many instances of 
such successful attempts. King Stephen, King Henry IV., 
King Henry VII., are all examples. If Monmouth lands, 
Humphrey will join him, I am sure. And I, my dear — 
He paused. 

And you too, Eobin? Oh! must you too go forth to fight? 
And yet, if the duke doth head a rising all the world would 
follow. Oh, to drive away the Papist king and restore our lib- 
erty!” 

My dear, I will do what my grandfather approves. If it 
be my duty to go, he will send me forth. ” 

I had almost forgotten to say that madame took me to her 
own chamber, where she opened a box and pulled out a gold 
chain, very fine. This she hung about my neck, and bade me 
sit down, and gave me some sound advice, reminding me that 
woman was the weaker vessel, and should look to her husband 
not only to love and cherish her, but also to prevent her from 


FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. 


91 


falling into certain grievous sins, as of temper, deceitfulness, 
vanity, and the like, to which the weaker nature is ever prone. 
Many other things she said, being a good and virtubus woman, 
but I pass them over. 

After supper we went again into the garden, the weather 
being warm and fine. The sun went down, but the sky was 
full of light, though it was past nine o^clock and time for me 
to go home and to bed. Yet he lingered. The birds had gone 
to sleep; there was no whisper of the wind; the village was in 
silence. And Eobin was whispering in my ear. I remember 
— I remember the very tones of his voice, which was low and 
sweet. I remember the words he said: Sweet love! Sweet 
love! How could I live so long without thee?^^ I remember 
my swelling heart and my glowing cheeks. Oh, Eobin — 
Eobin ! Oh, poor heart ! poor maid ! The memory of this one 
day was nearly all thou hadst to feed upon for so long — so long 
a time! 


CHAPTEE XIV. 

Suddenly we heard footsteps, as of those who are running, 
and my father^s voice speaking loud. 

Sing, oh, daughter of Zion! Shout, oh, Israel! Be glad 
and rejoice with all the heart— !^^ 

How, in the name of Heaven,^^ cried Sir Christopher, 
what meaneth this?^^ 

The arm of the Lord! The deliverance of Israel !^^ 

He burst upon us dragging a man with him by the arm. 
In the twilight I could only see, at first,' that it was a broad, 
thickset man. But my father^s brave form looked taller as 
he waved his arms and cried aloud. Had he been clad in a 
sheep-skin he would have resembled one of those ancient 
prophets whose words were always in his mouth. 

Good friend, said Sir Christopher, what meaneth these 
cries? Whom have we here?^’ 

Then the man with my father stepped forward and took off 
his hat. Why, I knew him at once, though it was ten years 
since I had seen him last. ^Twas my brother Barnaby — none 
other — come home again. He was now a great strong man — 
a stouter have I never seen, though he was somewhat under 
the middle height, broad in the shoulders, and thick of chest. 
Beside him Eobin, though reasonable in breadth, showed like 
a slender sapling. But he had still the same good-natured 
face, though now much broader. It needed.no more than the 
first look to know my brother Barnaby again. 


92 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


Barnaby/^ I cried, Barnaby, hast thou forgotten me?^^ 
I caught one of his great hands — never, surely, were there big- 
ger hands than Barnaby^s! Hast thou forgotten me?^^ 

Why,^^ he said, slowly" — ’twas ever a boy slow of speech 
and of understanding — ‘‘belike, ^tis sister. He kissed my 
forehead. “ It is sister, he said, as if he were tasting a cup 
of ale and was pronouncing on its quality. “ How dost thou, 
sister? Bravely, I hope. Thou art grown, sister. I have 
seen my mother, and — and — she does bravely too; though I 
left her crying. ^Tis their way, the happier they be.'’^ 

“ Barnaby?^^ said Sir Christopher, “ is it thou, scapegrace? 
Where hast thou — But first tell us what has happened. 
Briefly, man.^^ 

“ In two words, sir: the Duke of Monmouth landed the day 
before yesterday at Lyme-Eegis with my Lord Grey and a com- 
pany of a hundred — of whom I was one.^^ 

The duke had landed! Then what Eobin expected had come 
to pass! and my brother Barnaby was with the insurgents! My 
heart beat fast. 

“ The Duke of Monmouth hath landed!’^ Sir Christopher 
repeated, and sat down again, as one who knows not what may 
be the meaning of the news. 

“ Ay, sir, the duke hath landed. We left Holland on the 
24th of May, and we made the coast at Lyme at day-break on 
Thursday the 11th: ^Tis now, I take it, Saturday. The 
duke had with him on board ship Lord Grey, Mr. Andrew 
Fletcher of Saltoun, Mr. Hey wood Dare of Taunton — 

“ I know the nian,""^ said Sir Christopher, “ for an impu- 
dent, loud-tongued fellow. 

“ Perhaps he was, sir,^^ said Barnaby, gravely. “ Perhaps 
he was, but now — 

“ How ^ was ’V’ 

“ He was shot on Thursday evening by Mr. Fletcher for 
offering him violence with a cane, and is now dead.'^^ 

“ ^Tis a bad beginning. Go on, Barnaby. 

“ The duke had also Mr. Ferguson, Colonel Venner, Mr. 
Chamberlain, and others whom I can not remember. First 
we set Mr. Dare and Mr. Chamberlain ashore at Seatown, 
whence they were to carry intelligence of the rising to the 
duke^s friends. The duke landed at seven o^clock with his 
company, in seven boats. First he fell on his knees and 
prayed aloud. Then he drew his sword, and we all marched 
after to the market-place, where he raised his flag and caused 
the declaration to be read. Here it is, your honor. He 


FOR FAITH AFTD FREEDOM. 93 

lugged out a copy of the declaration, which Sir Christopher 
put aside, saying that he would read it in the morning. 

Then we tossed our hats and shouted, ^ A Monmouth! A 
Monmouth!^ Sixty stout young fellows ^listed on the spot. 
Then we divided our forces, and began to land the cannon — 
four pretty pieces as you could wish to see — and the arms, of 
which I doubt if we have enough, and the powder — two hun- 
dred and fifty barrels. The duke lay on Thursday night at 
The George. Next day, before dawn, the country people 
began flocking in.^^ 

What gentlemen have come in?’^ 

I know not, sir — -my duty was most of the day on board. 
In the evening I received leave to ride home, and, indeed. Sir 
Christopher, to carry the duke^s declaration to yourself. And 
now we shall be well rid of the king, the Pope, and the devil!^^ 
Because, said my father, solemnly — ‘'because with lies 
ye have made the hearts of the righteous sad whom I have not 
made sad.'’^ 

" And what doest thou among this goodly company, friend 
Barnaby?^'’ 

" I am to be a captain in one of the regiments, said Bar- 
naby, grinning with pride; "though a sailor, yet can I fight 
with the best. My colonel is Mr. Holmes, and my major Mr. 
Parsons. On board the frigate I was master, and navigated 
her.'’^ 

" There will be knocks, Barnaby; knocks, I doubt. 

" By your honoris leave, I have been where knocks were 
flying for ten years, and I will take ’my share, remembering 
still the treatment of my father and the poverty of my 
mother. 

" It is rebellion, Barnaby!— rebellion!^'' 

" Why, sir, Oliver Cromwell was a rebel. And your honor 
fought in the army of the Earl of Essex — and what was he but 
a rebel 

I wondered to hear my brother speak with so much boldness, 
who ten years before had bowed low and pulled his hair in pres- 
ence of his honor. Yet Sir Christopher seemed to take this 
boldness in good part. 

" Barnaby, he said, " thou art a stout and proper lad, and 
I doubt not thy courage — nay, I see it in thy face, which hath 
resolution in it, and yet is modest; no rufifler or boaster art 
thou, friend Barnaby. Yet — yet — if rebellion fail — even rebel- 
lion in a just cause — then those who rise lose their lives in 
vain, and the cause is lost, until better times. This he said 
as one who speaketh to himself. I saw him look upon his 


94 


rOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


grandson. The king is — a Papist/^ he said, that is most 
true. A Papist should not be suffered to rule this country. 
And yet to rise in rebellion! Have a care, lad! What if the 
time be not yet ripe? How know we who will join the duke?^^ 

The people are flocking to his standard by thousands,^^ 
said Barnaby. When I rode away last night the duke^s 
secretaries were writing down their names as fast as they could 
be entered; they were landing the arms and already exercising 
the recruits. And such a spirit they show, sir, it would do 
your heart good only once to witness !^^ 

Now, as I looked at Barnaby, I became aware that he was 
not only changed in appearance, but that he was also very 
finely dressed, namely, in a scarlet coat and a sword with a 
silken sash, with laced ruffles, a gold-laced hat, a great wig, 
white breeches, and a flowered waistcoat. In the light of day, 
as I afterward discovered, there were stains of wine visible upon 
the coat, and the ruffles were torn, and the waistcoat had 
marks upon it as of tar. One doth not, to be sure, expect in 
the sailing-master of a frigate the same neatness as in a gallant 
of St. Jameses. Yet our runaway lad must have prospered. 

What doth the duke intend?^^ Sir Christopher asked him. 

Indeed, sir, I know not. "^Tis said by some that he will 
raise the West Country; ^nd by some that he will march north 
into Cheshire, where he hath many friends; and by others that 
he will march upon London, and call upon all good Protestants 
to rise and join him. We look to have an army of twenty 
thousand within a week. As for the king, it is doubted whether 
he can raise a paltry five thousand to meet us. Courage, 
dad — he dared to call his father, the Eev. Comfort Eykin, 
Doctor of Divinity, dad!^^ — and he clapped him lustily upon 
the shoulder; thou shalt' mount the pulpit yet; ay, of West- 
minster Abbey if it so please you!^/ 

His father paid no heed to this conversation, being wrapped 
in his own thoughts. 

I know not,'’^ said Sir Christopher, what to think. The 
news is sudden. And yet — and yet — 

“ We waste time,^^ cried my father, stamping his foot. 
Oh, we waste the time talking. What helps it to talk? 
Every honest man must now be up and doing. Why, it is a 
plain duty laid upon us. The finger of Heaven is visible, I 
say, in this. Out of the very sins of Charles Stuart hath the 
instrument for the destruction of his race been forged. A 
plain duty, I say. As for me, i must preach and ex- 
hort. As for my son, who was dead and yet liveth — he 
laid his hand upon Barnaby 's shoulder— “ time was when I 


mn FAlfS AND FREEDOM. 


95 


prayed that he might become a godly minister of God’s Word. 
Now I perceive clearly that the Lord hath ways of His own. 
My son shall fight and I shall preach. Perhaps he will rise 
and become another Cromwell!” Barnaby grinned. 

“ Sir/’ said my father, turning hotly upon his honor, I 
perceive that thou art lukewarm. If the cause be the Lord’s, 
what matter for the chances? The issue is in the hands of the 
Lord. As for me and my household, we will serve the Lord. 
Yea, I freely offer myself and my son and my wife and my 
daughter — even my tender daughter — to the cause of the 
Lord. Young men and maidens, old men and children, the 
voice of the Lord calleth!” 

Nobody made reply; my father looked before him as if he 
saw in the twilight of the summer night a vision of what was 
to follow. His face, as he gazed, changed; his eyes, which 
were fierce and fiery, softened; his lips smiled. Then he 
turned his face and looked upon each of us in turn — upon his 
son and upon his wife and upon me, upon Eobin and upon Sir 
Christopher. It is, indeed,” he said, the will of the Lord. 
Why, what though the end be violent death to me, and to all 
of us ruin and disaster? We do but share the afflictions fore- 
told in the Vision of the Basket of Summer Fruit. What is 
death? What is the loss of earthly things compared with what 
shall follow to those who obey the voice that calls? Children, 
let us up and be doing. As for me, I shall have a season of 
freedom before I die. For twenty-five years have I been muz- 
zled, or compelled to whisper and mutter in corners and hid- 
ing-places. I have been a dumb dog. I, whose heart was full 
and overflowing with the sweet and precious Word of God; I, 
to whom it is not life but death to sit in silence! Now I shall 
deliver my soul before I die. Sirs, the Lord hath given to 
every man a weapon or two with which to fight. To me he 
hath given an eye and a tongue for discoursing and proclaim- 
ing the word of sacred doctrine. I have been muzzled — a 
dumb dog — though sometimes I have been forced to climb 
among the hills and speak to the bending tree-tops. Now I 
shall be free again, and I will speak, and all the ends of the 
earth shall hear. ” 

His eyes gleamed, and he panted and gasped, and waved his 
arms. 

As for sister, dad,” said Barnaby, she and mother may 
bide at home. ” 

No; they shall go with me. I offer my wife, my son, my 
daughter, and myself to the cause of the Lord.” 

“A camp is but a rough place for a woman,” said Barnaby. 


96 


FOR FAITH AKD FREEDOM. 


She is offered; she is dedicated; she shall go with us. 

I know not what was in his mind, or why he wished that I 
should go with him, unless it was a desire to give everything 
that he had — to hold back nothing — to the Lord; therefore he 
would give his children as well as himself. As for me, my 
heart glowed to think that I was even worthy to join in such a 
cause. What could a woman do? But that I should find out. 

Robin,^^ I whispered, ^tis Religion calls. If I am to be 
among the followers of the duke, thou wilt not remain behind ?^^ 
Child — it was my mother who whispered to me; I had 
not seen her coming—^^ child, let us obey him. Perhaps it 
will be better for him if we are at his side. And there is Bar- 
naby. But we must not be in their way. We shall find a 
place to sit and wait. Alas, that my son hath returned to us 
only to go fighting! We will go with them, daughter.'’^ 

‘^AVe should be better without women,^^ said Barnaby, 
grumbling; I would as lief have a woman on shipboard as in 
the camp. To be sure, if he has set his heart upon it — but 
then, he will not stay long in camp, where the cursing of the 
men is already loud enough to scare a preacher out of his cas- 
sock. Dad, I say — But my father was fallen again into a 
kind of rapture, and heard nothing. 

When doth the duke begin his march?^^ he said, suddenly. 
I know not; but we shall find him, never fear.'''^ 

I must have speech with him at the earliest possible time. 
Hours are precious, and we waste them — we waste them. ^ ^ 
Well, sir, it is bed-time. To-morrow we can ride — unless, 
because it is the Sabbath, you would choose to wait till Mon- 
day. And as to the women, by your leave, it is madness to 
bring them to a camp.^^ 

Wait till Monday! are thou mad, Barnaby? Why, I have 
things to tell the duke. Up! let us ride all night. To-mor- 
row is the Sabbath, and I will preach; yea, I will preach. My 
soul longeth — ^yea, even it fainteth — for the courts of the Lord. 
Quick! quick! let us mount and ride all night. 

At this moment Humphrey joined us. 

Lads,'’^ said Sir Christopher, ‘^you are fresh from Hol- 
land. Knew you aught of this?^^ 

Sir,^^ said Humphrey, I have already told Doctor Eykin 
what to expect. I knew that the duke was coming. Robin 
did not know, because I would not drag him into the con- 
spiracy. I knew that the duke was coming, and that without 
delay. I have myself had speech in Amsterdam with his 
grace, who comes to restore the Protestant religion and to give 
freedom of worship to all good Protestant people. His friends 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


97 


have promises of support everywhere. Indeed, sir, I think that 
the expedition is well planned, and is certain of support. Suc- 
cess is in the hands of the Lord; but we do not expect that 
there will be any serious opposition. With submission, sir, I 
am under promise to join the duke. I came over in advance 
to warn his friends, as I rode from London, of his approach. 
Thousands are waiting in readiness for him. But, sir, of all 
this, I repeat, Eobin knew nothing. I have been for three 
months in the councils of those who desire to drive forth the 
Popish king, but Eobin have I kept in the dark.^^ 

Humphrey,^^ said Eobin, am not I a Protestant?^^ 


CHAPTEE XV. 

A HIGHT AKD MORNIKG AT LYME-REGIS. 

Wheh I read of men possessed by some spirit — that is to 
say, compelled to go hither and thither where, but for the 
spirit, they would not go, and to say things which they would 
not otherwise have said — I think of our midnight ride to Lyme, 
and of my father then, and of the three weeks^ madness which 
followed. It was some spirit — whether of good or evil I can 
not say, and I dare not so much as to question — which seized 
him. That he hurried away to join the duke on the first news 
of his landing, without counting the cost or weighing the 
chances, is easy to be understood. Like Humphrey, he was 
led by his knowledge of the great numbers who hated the » 
Catholic religion to b^elieve that they, like himself, would rise 
with one accord. He also remembered the successful rebellion 
against the first Charles, and expected nothing less than a 
repetition of that success. This I knew was what the exiles in 
Holland thought and believed. The duke, they said, was the 
darling of the people; he was the Protestant champion; who 
would not press forward when he shc^ld draw the sword? 
But what man in his sober senses would have dragged his wife 
and daughter with him to the godless riot of a camp? Perhaps 
he wanted them to share his triumph, to listen while he moved 
the soldiers as that ancient hermit Peter moved the people to 
the Holy Wars? But I know not. He said that I was to be, 
like Jephthah^s daughter, consecrated to the cause of the Lord; 
and what he meant by that I never understood. 

He was so eager to start upon the journey that he would not 
wait a moment. The horses must be saddled; we must mount 
and away. Note that they were Sir Christopher^s horses 
which we borrowed; this also was noted afterward for the ruin 
4 


98 


FOR FAITH AND FREFHOM. 


of that good old man, with other particulars; as that Mon-^ 
mouth^s Declaration was found in the house (Barnaby brought 
it); one of Monmouth^s captains, Barnaby Eykin by name, 
had ridden from Lynne to Bradford in order to see him; he 
was a friend of the preacher Dr. Eykin; he was grandfather to 
one of the rebels and grand-uncle to another; with many other 
things. But these were enough. 

‘‘ Surely, surely, friend, said Sir Christopher, thou wilt 
not take wife and daughter? They can not help the cause; 
they have no place in a camp. 

Young men and maidens: one with another. Quick! we 
waste tjjie time. 

And to ride all night, consider, man — all night long!^^ 

What is a night? They will have all eternity to rest in.^^ 

He hath set his heart upon it,^^ said my mother. Let 
us go; a night^s weariness will not do much harm. Let us go. 
Sir Christopher, without further parley. 

^VGo, then, in the name of God,^^ said the old man. 

Child, give me a kiss.'’^ He took me in his arms and kissed 
me on the forehead. Thou art, then,^^ he said, tenderly,, 
‘^devoted to the Protestant cause. Why, thou art already 
promised to a Protestant since this morningj forget not that 
promise, child. Humphrey and Barnaby will protect thee — 
and — 

Sir,^^ said Eobin, by your leave, I alone have the right 
to go with her and to protect her. 

“Nay, Eobin, I said, “stay here until Sir Christopher 
himself bids thee go. That will be very soon. Eemember 
thy promise. We did not know, Eobin, an hour ago that the 
promise would be claimed so soon. Eobin — for he mur- 
mured — “ I charge thee, remain at home until — 

“ I promise thee, sweetheart. But he hung his head and 
looked ashamed. 

Sir Christopher, holding my hand, stepped forth upon the 
grass and looked upward into the clear sky, where in the trans- 
parent twilight we could see a few stars twinkling. 

“ This, friend Eykin — this, Humphrey,^^ he said, gravely, 
“is a solemn night for all. No more fateful day hath ever 
come to any of us; no! not that day when I joined Hampden’s 
new regiment and followed with the army of Lord Essex. 
Granted that we have a righteous cause, we know not that our 
leader hath in him the root of the matter. To rise against the 
king is a most weighty matter — fatal if it fail, a dangerous 
precedent if it succeed. Civil war is, of all wars, the most 
grievous; to fight under a leader who doth not live after the 


FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. 99 

laws of God, methinks, most dangerous. The duke hath 
lighted a torch which will spread flames everywhere — 

It is the voice of the Lord which calleth us!^^ my father 
interrupted. To-morrow I shall speak again to God^s 
elect. 

Sir/^ said Humphrey, very seriously, I pray you think 
not that this enterprise hath been rashly entered upon, nor 
that we depend upon the judgment of the duke alone. It is 
unhappily true that his life is sinful, and so is that of Lord 
Grey, who hath deserted his lawful wife for her sister. But 
those who have pushed on the enterprise consider that the duke 
is at least a true Protestant. They have, moreover, received 
solid assurances of support from every quarter; You have 
been kept in the dark from the beginning at my own earnest 
request, because, though I knew full well your opinion, I 
would not trouble your peace or endanger your person. Suffer 
us, then, to depart, and, for yourself, do nothing; and keep — 
oh! sir, I entreat you — keep Robin at home until our success 
leaves no room for doubt. 

Go, then — go,^^ said Sir Christopher. I have grievous 
misgivings that all is not well. But go, and Heaven bless the 
cause 

Robin kissed me, whispering that he would follow, and that 
before many days; and so we mounted and rode forth. In 
such hot haste did we depart that we took with us no change 
of raiment or any provision for the journey at all, save that 
Barnaby, who, as I afterward found, never forgot the pro- 
visions, found time to get together a small parcel of bread and 
meat, and a flask of Malmsey, with which to refresh our spirits 
later on. We even rode away without any money. 

My father rode one horse and my mother sat behind him; 
then I followed, Barnaby marching manfully beside me, and 
Humphrey rode last. The ways are rough, so that those who 
ride, even by daylight, go but slowly; and we, riding between 
high hedges, went much too slowly for my father, who, if he 
spoke at all, cried out impatiently, ^Quicker! quicker! we 
lose the time."^^ 

He sat bending over the horse ^s head, with rounded shoul- 
ders, his feet sticking out on either side, his long white hair 
and his ragged cassock floating in the wind. In his left hand 
he carried his Bible as a soldier carries his sword; on his head 
he wore the black silk cap in which he daily sat at work. He 
was praying and meditating; he was preparing the sermon 
which he would deliver in the morning. 

Jiarnaby plodded on beside me; night or day made no differ- 


100 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


ence to him. He slept when he could, and worked when he 
must. Sailors keep their watch day and night without any 
difference. 

It was Sir Christopher that I came after/^ he told me 
presently. Mr. Dare — who hath since been killed by Mr. 
Fletcher — told the duke that if Sir Christopher Challis would 
only come into camp, old as he is, the country gentlemen of 
his opinions would follow to a man, so respected is he. Well, 
he will not. But we have his nephew, Humphrey; and, if I 
mistake not, we shall have his grandson — if kisses mean any- 
thing. So Eobin is thy sweetheart, sister ; thou art indeed a 
lucky girl. And we shall have dad to preach. Well, I know 
not what will happen, but some will be knocked o^ the head, 
and if dad goes in the way of knocks — But whatever hap- 
pens, he will get his tongue again — and so he will be happy. 

As for preaching, he went on, speaking with due pauses, 
because there was no hurry, and he was never one of those 
whose words flow easily, ‘‘ if he thinks to preach daily, as they 
say was done in CromwelFs time, I doubt if he will find many 
to listen, for by the look of the fellows who are crowding into 
camp they will love the clinking of the can better than the 
division of the text. But if he cause his friends to join, he 
will be welcomed; and for devoting his wife and daughter, 
that, sister, with submission, is rank nonsense, and the sooner 
you get out of the camp, if you must go there, the better. 
Women aboard ship are bad enough, but in camp they are the 
devil 

Barnaby, speak not lightly of the Evil One.'’^ 

Where shall we bestow you when the fighting comes? 
Well, it shall be in some safe place. 

Oh, Barnaby! will there be fighting?^^ 

Good lack, child! what else will there be?^^ 

As the walls of Jericho fell down at the blast of the trum- 
pet, so the king's armies will be dispersed at the approach of 
the Lord^s soldiers. 

That was a long time ago, sister. There is now no trum- 
pet-work employed in war, and no priests on the march, but 
plenty of fighting to be done before anything is accomplished. 
But have no fear. The country is rising. They are sick at 
heart already of a Popish king. I say not that it will be easy 
work; but it can be done, and it will be done, before we all sit 
down again.^' 

“ And what will happen when it is done?^' 

Truly, I know not. When one king is sent a-packing, 
they put up another, I suppose. My father shall have the 


FOR FAITH AHH FREEDOM. 


101 


biggest church in the country to preach in; Humphrey will he 
made physician to the new king — nothing less; you shall 
marry Eobin, and he shall be made a duke or a lord at least; 
and I shall have command of the biggest ship in the king^s 
navy, and go to fight the Spaniards, or to trade for negroes on 
the Guinea coast/ ^ 

And suppose the duke should be defeated 

Well, sister, if he is defeated it will go hard with all of us. 
Those who are caught will be stabbed with a Bridport dagger, 
as they say. Ask not such a question; as well ask a sailor 
what will happen to him if his ship is cast away. Some may 
escape in boats and some by swimming, and some are drowned, 
and some are cast upon savage shores. Every man must take 
his chance. Never again ask such a question. Nevertheless, 
I fear my father will get his neck as far in the noose as I my- 
self. But remember, sister, do you and my mother keep snug. 
Let others carry on the rebellion; do you keep snug. For 
d'^ye see, a man takes his chance, and if there should happen 
a defeat and the rout of these country lads, I could e^en scud 
myself before the ' gale, and maybe get to a seaport, and so 
aboard and away while the chase was hot. But for a woman 
— keep snug, I say, therefore. 

The night, happily, was clear and fine. A slight breeze was 
blowing from the north-west, which made one shiver, yet it was 
not too cold. I heard the screech-owl once or twice, which caused 
me to tremble more than the cold. The road, when we left 
the highway, which is not often mended in these parts, be- 
came a narrow lane full of holes and deep ruts, or else a track 
across open country. But Barnaby knew the way. 

It was about ten of the clock when we began our journey, 
and it was six in the morning when we finished it. I suppose 
there are few women who can boast of having taken so long a 
ride and in the night. Yet, strange to say, I felt no desire to 
sleep; nor was I wearied with the jogging of the horse, but was 
sustained by something of the spirit of my father. A wonder- 
ful thing it seemed to me that a. simple country maid, such as 
myself, should help in putting down the Catholic king; 
women there have been who have played great parts in history 
— Jael, Deborah, Judith, and Esther, for example; but that I 
should be called (since then I have discovered that I was not 
called), this, indeed, seemed truly wonderful. Then I was go- 
ing forth to witness the array of a gallant army about to fight 
for freedom and for religion, just as they were arrayed forty 
years before, when Sir Christopher was a young man and rode 
among them. 


102 . 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


My brother, this stout Barnaby, was one of them; my father 
was one of them; Humphrey was one of theni; and in a little 
while I was very sure (because Eobin would feel no peace of 
mind if I was with the insurgents and he was still at home) my 
lover would be with them too. And I pictured to myself a 
holy and serious camp, filled with godly sober soldiers listening 
to sermons and reading the Bible, going forth to battle with 
hymns upon their lips, and withal so valiant that at their very 
first onset the battalions of the king would be shattered. Alas! 
any one may guess the foolish thoughts of a girl who had no 
knowledge of the world nor any experience. Yet all my life I 
had been taught that resistance was at times a sacred duty, 
and that the Divine Eight of the (so-called) Lord^s anointed 
was a vain superstition. So far, therefore, was I better pre- 
pared than most wonien for the work in hand. 

When we rode through Sherborne all the folk were abed and 
the streets were empty. From Sherborne our way lay through 
Yetminster and Evershott to Beaminster, where we watered 
and rested the horses, and took some of Bar naby^s. provisions. 
The country through which we rode was full of memories of 
the last great war. The castle of Sherborne was twice be- 
sieged; once by Lord Bedford, when the Marquis of Hertford 
held it for the king. That siege was raised; but it was after- 
ward taken by Fairfax with its garrison of six hundred soldiers, 
and was then destroyed, so that it is now a heap of ruins; and 
as for Beaminster, the town hath never recovered from the 
great fire when Prince Maurice held it, and it is still half in 
ruins, though the ivy hath grown over the blackened walls of 
the burned houses. The last great war, of which I had heard 
so much! And now, perhaps we were about to begin another. 

It was two o^clock in the morning when we dismounted at 
Beaminster. My mother sat down upon a bench and fell in- 
stantly asleep. My father walked up and down impatiently, 
as grudging every minute. Barnaby, for his part, made a 
leisurely and comfortable meal, eating his bread and meat — of 
which I had some — and drinking his Malmsey with relish, as 
if we were on a journey of pleasure and there was plenty of 
time^for leisurely feeding. Presently he arose with a sigh (the 
food and wine being all gone), and said that the horses being 
now rested, we might proceed. So he lifted my mother into 
her seat and we went on with the journey, the day now break- 
ing. 

The way, I say, was never tedious to me, for I wa^ sustained 
by the novelty and the strangeness of the thing. Although I 
had a thousand things to ask Barnaby, it must be confessed ^ 


FOR FAITH AISTD FBEEBOK. 


lOB 


that for one who had traveled so far he had marvelous little to 
tell. I dare say that the deck and cabins of a ship are much 
the same whether she be on the Spanish Main or in the British 
Channel, and sailors, even in port, are never an observant 
race, except of weather and so forth. It was strange, how- 
ever, only to look upon him and to mark how stout a man he 
was grown and how strong, and yet how he still spoke like the 
old Barnaby, so good-natured and so dull with his book, who 
was daily flogged for his Latin grammar, and bore no malice, 
but prepared himself to enjoy the present when the flogging 
was over, and not to anticipate the certain repetition of the 
flogging on the morrow. He spoke in the same slow way, as 
if speech were a thing too precious to be poured out quickly; 
and there was always sense in what he said (Barnaby was only 
stupid in the matter of syntax), though he gave me not such 
answers as I could have wished. However, he confessed, 
little by little, something of his history and adventures. 
When he ran away, it was, as we thought, to the port of Bris-. 
tol, where he presently found a berth as cabin-boy on board a 
West Indiaman. In this enviable post — everybody on board 
has a cuff or a kick or a rope^s-end for the boy — he continued 
for some time. But,^^ said Barnaby, you are not to think 
that the rope^s-end was half so bad as my father ^s rod; nor 
the captain’s oath so bad as my father’s rebuke; nor the rough 
work and hard fare so bad as the Latin syntax.” Being so 
strong, and a hearty, willing lad to boot, he was quickly pro- 
moted to be an able seaman, when there were no more rope’s- 
endings for him. Then, having an ambition above his station, 
and not liking his rude and ignorant companions of the fo’k’sle 
(which is the fore part of a ship, where the common sailors 
sleep and eat), and being so fortunate as to win the good graces 
of the supercargo first and of the captain next, he applied his 
leisure time (when he had any leisure) to the method of taking 
observations, of calculating longitudes and latitudes, his knowl- 
edge of arithmetic having fortunately stuck in his mind longer 
than that of Latin. These things, I understand, are of the 
greatest use to a sailor and necessary to an officer. Armed 
with this knowledge, and the recommendation of his superiors, 
Barnaby was promoted from before the mast and became what 
they call a mate, and so rose by degrees, until he was at last 
second captain. But by this time he had made many voyages 
to the West Indies, to New York and Baltimore, and to the 
West Coast of Africa, in the service of his owners, and, I dare 
say, had procured much wealth for them, though but little 
for himself. And being at Eotterdam upon his owners’ busi- 


104 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


ness, he was easily persuaded — being always a stout Protestant, 
and desirous to strike a blow in revenge for the ejection of 
his father — to engage as second captain on board the frigate 
which brought over the Duke of Monmouth and his company, 
and then to join him on his landing. This was the sum of 
what he had to tell me. He had seen many strange people, 
wonderful things, and monsters of the deep; Indians, whom 
the cruelty and avarice of the Spaniards have well-nigh de- 
stroyed, the sugar plantations in the islands, negro slaves, 
negroes free in their own country, sharks and calamaries, of 
which I had heard and read — he had seen all these things, and 
still remained (in his mind, I mean) as if he had seen nothing. 
So wonderfully made are some men^s minds that whatever 
they see they are in no way moved. 

I say, then, that Barnaby answered my questions, as we rode 
along, briefly, and as if such matters troubled him not. When 
I asked him, for example, how the poor miserable slaves liked 
being captured and sold and put on board ship crowded to- 
gether for so long a voyage, Barnaby replied that he did not 
know, his business being to buy them and carry them across 
the water, and if they rebelled on board ship to shoot them 
down or flog them; and when they got to Jamaica to sell 
them; where, if they would not work, they would be flogged 
until they came to a better mind. If a man was born a negro, 
what else, he asked, could he expect? 

There was one question which I greatly desired to ask him, 
but dared not. It concerned the welfare of his soul. Pres- 
ently, however, Barnaby answered that question before I 
put it. 

Sister, he said, my mother^s constant affliction con- 
cerning me, before I ran away, was as to the salvation of my 
soul. And truly, that seems to me so difficult a thing to com- 
pass (like navigation to an unknown port over an unknown 
sea set everywhere with hidden rocks and liable to sudden gusts) 
that I can not understand how a plain man can ever succeed in 
it. Wherefore it comforted me mightily after I got to sea to 
learn on good authority that there is another way, which, com- 
pared with my father % is light and easy. In short, sister, 
though he knows it not, there is one religion for lands-folk and 
another for sailor-folk. A sailor (everybody knows) can not 
get so much as a sail bent without cursing and swearing — this, 
which is desperately wicked ashore, counts for nothing at all 
afloat; and so with many other things; and the long and the 
short of it is that if a sailor does his duty, fights his ship like a 
man, is true to his owners, and faithful to his messmates, it 


FOR FAITH AKD FREEDOM. 


105 


matters not one straw whether he hath daily sworn great oaths^ 
drunk himself (whenever he went ashore) as helpless as a log, 
and kissed a pretty girl whenever his good-luck gave him the 
chance — which does, indeed, seldom come to most sailors — 
he added this with a deep sigh — I say, sister, that for such a 
sailor, when his ship goes down with him, or when he gets a 
grape-shot through his vitals, or when he dies of fever, as hap- 
pens often enough in the hot climates, there is no question as 
to the safety of his soul, but he goes straight to heaven. What 
he is ordered to do when he get there, said Barnaby, I can 
not say; but it will be something, I doubt not, that a sailor 
will like to do. Wherefore, sister, you can set my mother^s 
heart — poor soul! — quite at rest on this important matter. 
You can tell her that you have conversed with me, and that I 
have that very same inward assurance of which my father 
speaks so much and at such length. The very sanie assurance 
it is — tell her that. And beg her to ask me no questions upon 
the matter.^’ 

Well, Barnaby; but art thou sure — 

It is a heavenly comfort, he replied, before I had time to 
finish, to have such an assurance. For why? A man that 
hath it doth never more trouble himself about what shall hap- 
pen to him after he is dead. Therefore he goes about his duty 
with an easy mind; and so, sister, no more upon this head if 
you love me and desire peace of mind for my mother. 

So nothing more was said upon that subject then or after- 
ward. A sailor to be exempted by right of his calling from 
the religion of the landsman ! ^Tis a strange and dangerous 
doctrine. But if all sailors believe it, yet how can it be? This 
question, I confess, is too high for me. And as for my moth- 
er, I gave her Barnaby^s message, begging her at the same time 
not to question him further. And she sighed, but obeyed. 

Presently Barnaby asked me if we had any money. 

I had none, and I knew that my mother could have but lit- 
tle. Of course my father never had any. I doubt if he had 
possessed a single penny since his ejection. 

“ Well,^^ said Barnaby, I thought to give my money to 
mother. But I now perceive that if she has it she will give it 
to dad; and if he has it, he will give it all to the duke for the 
cause — wherefore, sister, do you take it and keep it, not for 
me, but to be expended as seemeth you besf^ He lugged out 
of his pocket a heavy bag. Here is all the money I have 
saved in ten years. Nay, I am not as some sailors, one that 
can not keep a penny in purse, but must needs fling all away. 
Here are two hundred and fifty gold pieces. Take them, sis- 


106 


FOB FAITH AHD FBEEDOM. 


ter. Hang the bag round thy neck, and never part with it, 
day or night. And say nothing about the money either to 
mother or to dad, for he will assuredly do with it as I have 
said. A time may come when thou wilt want it. 

Two hundred and fifty gold pieces! Was it possible that 
Barnaby could be so rich? I took the bag and hung it round 
my waist — not my neck — by the string which he had tied about 
the neck, and as it was covered by my mantle, nobody ever 
suspected that I had this treasure. In the end, as you shall 
hear, it was useful. 

It was now broad daylight, and the sun was up. As we drew 
near Bridport there stood a man in the road armed with a 
halberd. 

Whither go ye, good people?’^ he asked. 

Friend, said Barnaby, flourishing his oaken staff, ‘‘we 
ride upon our own business. Stand aside, or thou mayest 
henceforth have no more business to do upon this earth 

“ Eide on, then — ride on,^^ he replied, standing aside with 
great meekness. This was one of the guards whom they posted 
everywhere upon the roads in order to stop the people who 
were flocking to the camp. In this way many were sent back, 
and many were arrested on their way to join Monmouth. 

Now, as we drew near to Bridport, the time being about 
four o^clock, we heard the firing of guns and a great shouting. 

“ They have begun the fighting,^^ said Barnaby. “ I knew 
it would not be long a-coming. 

It was, in fact, their first engagement, when the Dorsetshire 
Militia were driven out of Bridport by the duke^s troops, and 
there would have been a signal victory at the very outset but* 
for the cowardice of Lord Grey, who ran away with the horse. 

Well, it was a strange and a wonderful thing to think that 
close at hand were men killing each other on the Sabbath; yea, 
and some lying wounded on the roads; and that civil war had 
again begun. 

“Let us push on,^^ said Humphrey, “out of the way of 
these troops. They are but country lads all of them. If they 
retreat they will run; and if they run they will be seized with 
a panic, and will run all the way back to Lyme, trampling on 
everything that is in the road.^^ 

This was most excellent advice, which we followed, taking 
an upper track which brought us into the high-road a mile or 
so nearer Charmouth. 

1 do not think there can be anywhere a finer road than that 
which runs from Charmouth to Lyme. It runneth over high 
hills sometimes above the sea which rolls far below, and some- 


Pon FAITH A HD FRFFDOM. 


10 ? 


times above a great level inland plain^ the name of which I 
have forgotten. The highest of the hills is called Golden Cap; 
the reason why was plainly shown this morning when the sky 
was clear and the sun was shining from the south-east full upon 
this tall plco. When we got into this road we found it full of 
young fellows, lusty and well-conditioned, all marching, run- 
ning, walking, shouting, and singing on their way to join Mon- 
mouth. Some were adorned with flowers, some wore the blue 
favor of the duke, some had cockades in their hats, and some 
again were armed with musket or with sword; some carried 
pikes, some knives tied on to long poles, some had nothing 
but thick cudgels, which they brandished valiantly. At sight 
of these brave fellows my father lifted his head and waved his 
hand, crying, A Monmouth! a Monmouth! Follow me, 
brave lads!^^ — just as if he had been a captain encouraging his 
men to charge. 

The church of Lyme standeth high upon the cliff which 
faces the sea; it is on the eastern side of the town, and before 
you get to the church, on the way from Oharmouth, there is a 
broad field also on the edge of the cliff. It was this field that 
was the first camp of Monmouth^s men. There were no tents 
for the men to lie in, but there were wagons filled, I suppose, 
with munitions of war; there were booths where things were 
sold, such as hot sausages fried over a charcoal fire, fried fish, 
lobsters, and periwinkles, cold bacon and pork, bread, cheese, 
and such like, and barrels of beer and cider on wooden trestles. 
The men were haggling for the food and drink, and already 
one or two seemed fuddled. Some were exercising in the use 
of arms; some were dancing, and some singing. And no 
thought or respect paid at all to the Sabbath. Oh, was this 
the pious and godly camp which I had expected? 

Sister, said Barnaby, this is a godly and religious place 
to which the wisdom of dad hath brought thee. Perhaps he 
meaneth thee, to lie in the open like the lads.^^ 

AVhere is the duke?^^ asked my father, looking wrathfully 
at these revelers and Sabbath-breakers. 

The duke lies at the George Inn,^^ said Bamaby. I will 
show the way. 

In the blue parlor of the George the duke was at that time 
holding a council. There were different reports as to the Brid- 
port affair. Already it was said that Lprd Grey was unfit to 
lead the horse, having been the first to run away; and some 
said that the militia were driven out of the town in a panic, 
and some that they made a stand and that our men had fied. 
I know not what was the truth, and now it matters little, ex- 


108 


FOR FAITH AKD FREEDOM. 


cept that the first action of our men brought them little honor. 
When the council was finished, the duke sent word that he 
would receive Dr. Ohallis (that was Humphrey) and Dr. Com- 
fort Eykin. 

So tliey were introduced to the presence of his grace, and 
first my father — as Humphrey told me — fell into a kind of 
ecstasy, praising God for the landing of the duke, and fore- 
telling such speedy victory as would lay the enemies of the 
country at his feet. He then drew forth a roll of paper in 
which he had set down, for the information of the duke, the 
estimated number of the disaffected in every town of the south 
and west of England, with the names of such as could be 
trusted not only to risk their own bodies and estates in the 
cause, but would stir up and encourage their friends. There 
were so many on these lists that the duke^s eyes brightened as 
he read them. 

Sir,^^ he said, if these reports can be depended upon, we 
are indeed made men. What is your opinion. Doctor Challis?^^ 
My opinion, sir, is that these are the names of friends and 
well-wishers; if they see your grace well supported at the out- 
set, they will fiock in;- if not, many of them will stand aloof. 

‘‘Will Sir Christopher join me?^^ asked the duke. 

“No, sir; he is now seventy-five years of age.'^^ 

The duke turned away. Presently he turned to the lists, 
and asked many more questions. 

“ Sir,^^ said my father, at length, “ I have given you the 
names of all that I know who are well affected to the Protestant 
cause; they are those who have remained faithful to the ejected 
ministers. Many a time have I secretly preached to them. 
One thing is wanting; the assurance that your grace will be- 
stow upon us liberty of conscience and freedom of worship; else 
will not one move hand or foot. 

“ Why,^^ said the duke, “ for what other purpose am I 
come? Assure them, good friend — assure them in my name; 
make the most solemn pledge that is in your power and in 
mine.^^ 

“ In that case, sir,^^ said my father, “ I will afc once write 
letters with my own hand to the brethren everywhere. There 
are many honest country lads who will carry the letters by 
ways where they are not likely to be arrested and searched. 
And now, sir, I pray your leave to preach to these your soldiers. 
They are at present drinking, swearing, and breaking the Sab- 
bath. The campaign, which should be begun with prayer and 
humiliation for the sins of the country, hath been begun with 


■^OU FAITH AND FREEDOM. 109 

iiiany deadly sins^ with merriment, and with fooling. Suffer 
me, then, to preach to them. 

Preach, by all means,^^ said the duke. You shall have 
the parish church. I fear, sir, that my business will not suffer 
me to have the edification of your sermon, but I hope that it 
will tend to the soberness and earnestness of my men. For- 
give them, sir, for their lightness of heart- They are for the 
most part young. Encourage them by promises rather than 
by rebuke. And so, sir, for this occasion, farewell!"'^ 

In this way my father obtained the wish of his heart, and 
preached once more in a church before the people, who were 
the young soldiers of Monmouth^s army. 

I did not hear that sermon, because 1 was asleep. It was in 
tones of thunder that my father preached to them. He spoke 
of the old war, and the brave deeds that their fathers had done 
under Cromwell; theirs was the victory. Now, as then, the 
victory should be theirs, if they carried the spirit of faithful- 
ness into battle. He warned them of their sins, sparing none; 
and, in the end, he concluded with such a denunciation of the 
king as made all who heard it, and had been taught to regard 
the hinge's majesty as sacred, open their mouths and gape upon 
each other; for then, for the first time, they truly understood 
what it was that they were engaged to do. 

While my father waited to see the duke, Barnaby went about 
looking for a lodging. The town is small, and the houses were 
all filled, but he presently found a cottage (call it rather a hut) 
on the shore beside the Cobb, where, on promise of an ex- 
travagant payment, the fisherman ^s wife consented to give up 
her bed to my mother and myself. Before the bargain was 
concluded, I had laid myself down upon it and was sound 
asleep. 

So I slept the whole day, though outside there was such a 
trampling on the beach, such a landing of stores and creaking 
of chains, as might have awakened the Seven Sleepers. But 
me nothing could awaken. 

In the evening I woke up refreshed. My mother was already 
awake, but for weariness could not move out of her chair. 
The good woman of the cottage, a kindly soul, brought me 
rough food of some kind with a drink of water — the army had 
drunk up all the milk, eaten all the cheese, the butter, the 
eggs, and the pork, beef, and mutton in the place. And then 
Humphrey came and asked if I would go with him into the 
town to see the soldiers. So I went, and glad I was to see the 
sight. But, Lord! to think that it was the Sabbath evening; 
for the main street of Lyme was full of men swaggering with 


110 


FOE FAITH AKi) FREEDOM. 


long swords at their sides^, and some with spears — feathers m 
their hats and pistols stuck in their belts— all were talking 
loud^ as, I am told, is the custom in a camp of soldiers. Out- 
side the George there was a barrel on a stand, and venders and 
drawers ran about with cans fetching and carrying the liquor 
for which the men continually called. Then at the door of 
the George there appeared the duke himself, with his follow- 
ing of gentlemen. All rose and huzzahed while the duke came 
down the steps and turned toward the camp outside the town. 

I saw his face very well as he passed. Indeed, I saw him 
many times afterward, and I declare that my heart sunk when 
first I gazed upon him as he stood upon the steps of the 
George Inn. For on his face, plain to read, was the sadness 
of coming ruin. I say I knew from that moment what would 
be his end. Nay, I am no prophetess, nor am I a witch, to 
know beforehand the counsels of the Almighty; yet the Lord 
hath permitted by certain signs the future to become apparent 
to those who know how to read them. In the Duke of Mon- 
mouth the signs were a restless and uneasy eye, an air of pre- 
occupation, a trembling mouth, and a hesitating manner. 
There was in him nothing of the confidence of one who knows 
that fortune is about to smile upon him. This, I say, was my 
first thought about the duke, and the first thought is prophecy. 

There sat beside the benches a secretary, or clerk, who took 
down the names of recruits. The duke stopped and looked 
on. A young man in a sober suit of brown, in appearance 
different from the country lads, was giving in his name. 

Daniel Foe, your grace,^"" said the clerk, looking up. 

He is from London. 

From London,^'’ the duke repeated. I have many 
friends in London. I expect them shortly. Thou art a 
worthy lad, and deservest encouragement. So he passed on 
his way. 


CHAPTEE XVL 

OH THE MARCH. 

At daybreak next morning the drums began to beat and the 
trumpets were blown, and after breakfast the newly raised 
army marched out in such order as was possible. I have not 
to write a history of this rebellion, which hath already been 
done by. able hands; I speak only of what I saw, and the things 
with which I was concerned. 

First, then, it is true that the whole country was quickly put 


POK FAITH AHD FKEEDOM. 


Ill 


into a ferment by the duke^s landing; and had those who 
planned the expedition provided a proper supply of arms, the 
army would have quickly mustered twenty thousand men, all 
resolute and capable of meeting any force that the king could 
have raised. Nay, it would have grown and swelled as it 
moved. But there were not enough arms. Everything prom- 
ised well for him — but there were no arms for half those who 
came in. The spirit of the Devon and Somerset militia was 
lukewarm; they ran at Bridport, at Axminster, and at Chard; 
nay, some of them even deserted to join the duke. There were 
thousands scattered about the country — those, namely, who 
still held to the doctrines of the persecuted ministers, and those 
who abhorred the Catholic religion — who wished well and 
would have joined — Humphrey knew well-wishers by the thou- 
sand whose names were on the lists in Holland — but how could 
they join when the army was so ill-found? And this was the 
principal reason, I am assured, why the country gentlemen 
did not come in at first — because there were no arms. How 
can soldiers fight when they have no arms? How could the 
duke have been suffered to begin with so scanty a preparation 
of arms? Afterward, when Monmouth proclaimed himself 
king, dhere were, perhaps, other reasons why the well-wishers 
held aloof. Some of them, certainly, who were known to be 
friends of the duke (among them Mr. Prideaux, of Ford Abbey) 
were arrested and thrown into prison, while many thousands 
who were flocking to the standard were either turned back or 
seized and thrown into prison. 

As for the quality of the troops who formed the army, I 
know nothing, except that at Sedgemoor they continued to 
fight valiantly after their leaders had fled. They were raw 
troops — mere country lads — and their officers were, for the 
most part, simple tradesmen who had no knowledge of the art 
of war. Dare the younger was a goldsmith; Captain Perrot 
was a dyer; Captain Hucker, a maker of serge; and so on with 
all of them. It was unfortunate that Mr. Andrew Fletcher of 
Saltoun should have killed Mr. Dare the elder on the first day, 
because, as everybody agrees, he was the most experienced sol- 
dier in the whole army. The route proposed by the duke was 
known to everybody. He intended to march through Taunton, 
Bridgewater, and Bristol to Gloucester, where he thought he 
would be joined by a new army raised by his friends in Cheshire. 
He also reckoned on receiving adherents everywhere on the 
road, and on easily defeating any force that the king should 
be able to send against him. How he fared in that scheme 
everybody knows. 


112 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


Long before the army was ready to march Humphrey came 
to advise with us. First of all, he had endeavored to have 
speech with my father, hut in vain. Henceforth my father 
seemed to have no thought of his wife and daughter. Hum- 
phrey at first advised us to go home again. ‘ ^ As for your 
dedication to the cause,” he said, /‘I think that he hath 
already forgotten it, seeing that it means nothing, and that 
your presence with us can not help. Go home, madame, and 
let Alice persuade Eobin to stay at home in order to take care 
of you. ” 

No,” said my mother; that may we not do. I must 
obey my husband, who commanded us to follow him. Whither 
he goeth there I will follow. 

Finding that she was resolute upon this point, Humphrey 
told us that the duke would certainly march upon Tauntoji, 
where more than half of the town were his friends. He there- 
fore advised that we shbuld ride to that place — not following 
the army, but going across the country, most of which is a very 
wild and desolate part, where we should have no fear except 
from gypsies and such wild people, who might be robbers and 
rogues, but who were all now making the most of the disturbed 
state of the country and running about the roads plundering 
and thieving. But he said he would himself provide us with a 
guide, one who knew the way, and a good stout fellow, armed 
with a cudgel at least. To this my mother agreed, fearing to 
anger her husband if she should disturb him at his work of 
writing letters. 

Humphrey had little trouble in finding the guide for us. 
He was an honest lad from a place called Holford, in the 
Quantock Hills, who, finding that there were no arms for him, 
was going home again. Unhappily, when we got to Taunton, 
he was persuaded — partly by me, alas! — to remain. He joined 
Earnaby^s company, and was either killed at Sedgemoor, or 
one of those hanged at Weston, Zoyland, or Bridgewater. For 
he was no more heard of. This business settled, we went up 
to the church-yard in order to see the march of the army out 
of camp. And a brave show the gallant soldiers made. 

First rode Colonel Wade with the vanguard. After them, 
with a due interval, rode the greater part of the Horse, already 
three hundred strong, under Lord Grey of Wark. Among 
them was the company sent by Mr. Speke, of White Lacking- 
ton, forty very stout fellows, well armed and mounted on cart- 
horses. The main army was composed of four regiments. 
The first was the Blue Eegiment, or the Duke^s Own, whose 
colonel was the aforesaid Wade. They formed the van, and 


FOR FAITH AKD FREEDOM. 


113 


were seven hundred strong. The others were the White, com- 
manded by Colonel Foukes, the Green, by Colonel Holmes, 
and the Yellow, by Colonel Fox. All these regiments were 
fully armed, the men wearing favors or rosettes in their hats 
and on their arms, of the color from which their regiment was 
named. 

The duke himself, who rode a great white horse, was sur- 
rounded by a small body-guard of gentlemen (afterward they 
became a company of forty), richly dressed and well mounted. 
With him were carried the colors, embroidered with the words 

Pro Keligione et Libertate. This was the second time that 
I had seen the duke, and again I felt at sight of his face the 
foreknowledge of coming woe. On such an occasion the chief 
shoi]^d show a gallant mien and a face of cheerful hope. The 
duke, however, looked gloomy, and hung his head. 

Truly, it seemed to me as if no force could dare so much as 
to meet this great and invincible army. And certainly there 
could nowhere be gathered together a more stalwart set of sol- 
diers, nearly all young men, and full of spirit. They shouted 
and sung as they marched. Presently there passed us my 
brother Barnaby, with his company of the Green Eegiment. 
It was easy to perceive by the handling of his arms and by his 
bearing that he was accustomed to act with others, and already 
he had so instructed his men that they set an example to the 
rest both in their orderliness of march and the carriage of their 
weapons. 

After the main army they carried the ordnance — four small 
cannon — and the ammunition in wagons with guards and 
horsemen. Lastly there rode those who do not fight, yet be- 
long to the army. These were the chaplain to the army. Dr. 
Hooke, a grave clergyman of the Church of England; Mr. 
Ferguson, the duke^'s private chaplain, a fiery person, of whom 
many hard things have been said, which here concern us not; 
and my father, who thus rode openly with the other two in 
order that the Non-conformists might be encouraged by his 
presence, as an equal with the two chaplains. He was cfad in 
a new cassock, obtained I know not whence. He sat upright 
in the saddle, a Bible in his hand, the long white locks lying 
on his shoulders like a peruke, but more venerable than any 
wig. His thin face was flushed with the joy of coming victory, 
and his eyes flashed fire. If all the men had shown such a spirit 
the army would have overrun the whole country. The four 
surgeons — Dr. Temple, Dr. Gaylard, Dr. Oliver, and Hum^ 



114 


FOK FAITH AND FKEEDOM. 


lowed such a motley crew as no one can conceive. There were 
gypsies, with their black tents and carts, ready to rob and 
plunder; there were the tinkers, who are nothing better than 
gypsies, and are said to speak their language; there were men 
with casks on wheels filled with beer or cider; there were carts 
carrying bread, cakes, biscuits, and such things as one can buy 
in a booth or at a fair; there were women of bold and impu- 
dent looks, singing as they walked; there were, besides, whole 
troops of country lads, some of them mere boys, running and 
strutting along in hopes to receive arms and to take a place in 
the regiments. 

Presently they were alt gone, and Lyme was quit of them. 
What became in the end of all the rabble rout which followed 
the army, I know not. One thing was certain : the godly dis- 
position, the pious singing of psalms, and the devout exposition 
of the Word which I had looked for in the army were not ap- 
parent. Rather there was evident a tumultuous joy, as of 
school-boys out for a holiday — certainly no school-boys could 
have made more noise or showed greater happiness in their 
faces. Among them, however, there were some men of mid- 
dle age, whose faces showed a different temper; but these were 
rare. 

Lord help them!^^ said our friendly fisher-woman, who 
stood with us. There will be hard knocks before those fine 
fellows go home again. 

They fight on the Lord’s side,” said my mother; there- 
fore they may be killed, but they will not whplly perish. ” 

As for the hard knocks, they began without any delay, and 
on that very morning; for at Axminster they encountered the 
Somerset and Devon Militia, who thought to join their forces, 
but were speedily put to flight by the rebels — a victory which 
greatly encouraged them. 

It hath been maliciously said that we followed the army — as 
if we were two sutler women — on foot, I suppose, tramping in 
the dust, singing ribald songs like those poor creatures whom 
we sdw marching out of Lyme. You have heard how w’e agreed 
to follow Humphrey’s advice. Well, we left Lyme very early 
the next morning (our fisher-woman having now become very 
friendly and loath to let us go) and rode out, our guide (poor 
lad! his death lies heavy on my soul, yet I meant the best; 
and, truly, it was the side of the Lord) marching beside us 
armed with a stout bludgeon. We kept the main road (which 
was very quiet at this early hour) as far as Axminster, where 
we left it; and after crossing the river by a ford, or wash, we 
engaged upon a track, or path, which led along the banks of a 


jP'OR FAITH AKT) FREEDOM. 


ns 

liftle stream for a mile or so — as far as the village of Chard- 
stock. Here we made no halt, but leaving it behind, we struck 
into a most wild and mountainous country full of old forests 
and great bare places. It is called the Forest of Neroche, and 
is said to shelter numbers of gypsies and vagabonds, and to 
have in it some of those wild people w^ho live in the hills and 
woods of Somerset, and do no work except to gather the dry 
broom and tie it up, and so live hard and hungry lives, but 
know not any master. These are reported to be a harmless 
people, but the gypsies are dangerous, because they are ready 
to rob and even murder. I thought of Barhaby^s bag of gold 
and trembled. However, we met with none of them on the 
journey, because they were all running after Monmouth^'s 
army. There was no path over the hills by the way we took; 
but our guide kneV the country so well that he needed none, 
pointing out the hills with a kind of pride as if they belonged 
to him, and telling us the name of every one; but these I have 
long since forgotten. The country, however, I can never for- 
get, because it is so wild and beautiful. One place I remem- 
ber. It is a very strange and wonderful place. There is a 
vast great earthwork surrounded by walls of stone, but these 
are ruinous. It stands on a hill called Blackdown, which 
looks into the Vale of Taunton. The guide said it was called 
Castle Batch, and that it was built long ago by the ancient 
Homans. It is not at all like Sherborne Castle, which Oliver 
Cromwell slighted when he took the place and blew it up with 
gunpowder; but Sherborne was not built by the Eomans. 
Here, after our long walk, we halted and took the dinner of 
cold bacon and bread which we had brought with us. The 
place looks out upon the beautiful Vale of Taunton, of which 
I had heard. Surely there can not be a more rich, fertile, and 
lovely place in all England than the Vale of Taunton. Our 
guide began to tell us of the glories of the town, its wealth and 
populousness — and all for Monmouth, he added. When my 
mother was rested we remounted our nags and went on, de- 
scending into the plain. Humphrey had provided us with a 
letter commendatory. He, who knew the names of all who 
were well affected, assured us that the lady to whom the letter 
was addressed, Miss Susan Blake by name, was one of the most 
forward in the Protestant cause. She was well known and 
much respected, and she kept a school for young gentlewomen, 
where many children of the Non-conformist gentry were edu- 
cated. He instructed us to proceed directly to her house, and 
to ask Jier to procure for us a decent and safe lodging. He 
could not have given us a letter to any better person. 


116 


mu FAITH AHi) FBEEDOII. 


It was late in the afternoon when we rode into Tauntoil. 
The streets were full of people running about, talking now in 
groups and now by twos and threes; now shouting and now 
whispering. While we rode along the street a man ran bawl- 
ing: 

Great news! great news! Monmouth is upon us with twice 
ten thousand men!^^ 

It seems that they had only that day learned of the defeat of 
the militia by the rebels. A company of the Somerset militia 
were in the town, under Colonel Luttrell, in order to keep 
down the people. 

Taunton is, as everybody knows, a most rich, prosperous, 
and populous town. I had never before seen so many houses 
and so many people. Why, if the men of Taunton declared 
for the duke, his cause was already won. For there is no- 
where, as I could not fail to know, a greater stronghold of dis- 
sent than this town, except London, and none where the Non- 
conformists have more injuries to remember. Only two years 
before this their meeting-houses had been broken into and their 
pulpits and pews brought out and burned, and they were 
forced, against their conscience, to worship in the parish 
church. 

We easily found Miss Blake^s house, and giving our horses 
to the guide, we presented her with our letter. She was a 
young woman somewhat below the common stature, quick of 
speech, her face and eyes full of vivacity, and about thirty 
years of age. But when she had read the letter and under- 
stood who we were and whence we came, she first made a deep 
reverence to my mother, and then she took my hands and 
kissed me. 

Madame, she said, believe me, my poor house will be 
honored indeed by the presence of the wife and the daughter 
of the godly Doctor Comfort Eykin. Pray, pray go no fur- 
ther. I have a room that is at your disposal. Go thither, 
madame, I beg, and rest after your journey. The wife of 
Doctor Eykin ! '’Tis indeed an honor. And so with the kind- 
est words she led us upstairs, and gave us a room with a bed 
in it, and caused water for washing to be brought, and present- 
ly went out with me to buy certain things needful for us, who 
were indeed rustical in our dress, to present the appearance of 
gentlewomen — thanks to Barna%^s heavy purse, I could get 
Qiem without telling my mother anything about it. She then 
gave us supper, and told us ail the news. The king, she said, 
was horribly afraid, and it was rumored that the priests had 
all been sent away to France; the Taunton people were re- 


FOE FAITH AHD FEEEHOM. 


117 


solved to give the duke a brave reception; all over the country 
there was no doubt, men would rally by thousands; she was in 
a rapture of joy and gratitude. Supper over, she took us to 
her school-room, and here — oh, the pretty sight! — her school- 
girls were engaged in working and embroidering flags for the 
duke^s army. 

I know not,^^ she said, whether his grace will condescend 
to receive them. But it is all we women can do. Poor 
wretch! she afterward suffered the full penalty for her zeal. 

All that evening we heard the noise of men running about 
the town, with the clanking of weapons and the commands of 
officers; but we knew not what had happened. 

Lo! in the morning the glad tidings that the militia had left 
the town. Nor was that all; for at daybreak the people began 
to assemble, and, there being none to stay them, broke into 
the great church and took possession of the arms that had been 
deposited for safety in the tower. They also opened the prison 
and set free a worthy Non-conformist divine named Vincent. 
All the morning the mob ran about the streets shouting: A 
Monmouth! a Monmouth !^^ the magistrates and Eoyaiists not 
daring so much as to show their faces, and there was nothing 
talked of but the overthrow of the king and the triumph of the 
Protestant religion. Nay, there were fiery speakers in the 
market-place and before the west porch of the church, who 
mounted on tubs and exhorted the people. Grave merchants 
came forth and shook hands with each other; ministers who 
had been in hiding now walked forth boldly. It was truly a 
great day for Taunton. 

The excitement grew greater when Captain Hucker, a well- 
known serge-maker of the town, rode in with a troop of 
Monmouth^ s horse. Captain Hucker had been seized by 
Colonel Phillips on the charge of receiving a message from the 
duke, but he escaped and joined the rebels, to his great loss, 
as afterward appeared. However, he now rode in to tell his 
fellow-townsmen of his wonderful and providential escape, and 
that the duke would certainly arrive the next day; and he ex- 
horted them to give him such a welcome as he had a right to 
expect at their hands. He also reminded them that they were 
the sons of the men who forty years before defended Taunton 
under Admiral Blake. There was a great shouting and tossing 
of caps after Captain Hucker^s address, and no one could do 
too much for the horsemen with him, so that I fear these brave 
fellows were soon fain to lie down and sleep till the fuines of 
the strong ale should leave their brains. 

All that day and half the night we sat in Miss Blake^s school- 


118 


VOU FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


room finishing the flags, in which I was permitted to join. 
There were twenty-seven flags in all presented to the army by 
the Taunton maids— twelve by Miss Blg-ke and fifteen by one 
Mrs. Musgrave, also a school-mistress. And now, indeed, see- 
ing that the militia at Axminster had fled almost at the mere 
aspect of one man, and those of Taunton had also fled away 
secretly by night, and, catching the zeal of our kind enter- 
tainer, and considering the courage and spirit of these good 
people, I began to feel confident again, and my heart, which 
had fallen very low at the sight of the duke^s hanging head 
and gloomy looks, rose again, and all dangers seemed to van- 
ish. And so, in a mere fooTs paradise, I continued happy in- 
deed until the fatal news of Sedgemoor fight awoke us all from 
our fond dreams. 


CHAPTER XVIL 

TAUKT05T. 

I NEVER weary in thinking of the gayety and happiness of 
those four days at Taunton among the rebels. There was no 
more doubt in any of our hearts; we were all confident of vic- 
tory — and that easy, and perhaps bloodless. As was the re- 
joicing at Taunton, so it would be in every town of the coun- 
try. One only had to look out of window in order to feel 
assurance of that victory, so jolly, so happy, so confident 
looked every face. 

‘‘ Why,^^ said Miss Blake, in future ages even we women, 
who have only worked the flags, will be envied for our share 
in the glorious deliverance. Great writers will speak of us as 
they speak of the Roman women. Then all our eyes sparkled, 
and the needles flew faster and the flags grew nearer to com- 
pletion. 

If history should condescend to remember the poor maids of 
Taunton at all, it will be, at best, with pity for the afflictions 
which afterward fell upon them; none, certainly, will envy 
them; but we shall be forgotten. Why should we be remem- 
bered? Women, it is certain, have no business with affairs of 
state, and especially none with rebellions and civil wars. Our 
hearts and passions carry us away. The leaders in the cause 
which we have joined appear to us to be more than human; 
we can not restrain ourselves, we fall down and worship our 
leaders, especially in the cause of religion and liberty. 

Now behold! On the very morning after we arrived at 
Taunton I was abroad in the streets with Miss Blake, looking 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDfDM. 119 

at the town, which hath shops full of the most beautiful and 
precious things, and wondering at the great concourse of peo- 
ple (for the looms were all deserted, and the workmen were in 
the streets filled with a martial spirit), I saw riding into the 
town no other than Kobin himself. Oh, how my heart leaped 
up to see him! He was most gallantly dressed — -in a purple 
coat;, with a crimson sash over his shoulders to carry his sword; 
he had pistols in his holsters, and wore great riding-boots, and 
with him rode a company of a dozen young men mounted on 
good strong nags; w%, they were men of our own village, and 
I knew them, every one. They were armed with muskets and 
pikes — I knew where they came from — and when they saw me 
the fellows all began to grin, and to square their shoulders so 
as to look more martial. But Eobin leaped from his horse. 

^Tis Alice he cried. ‘^Dear heart! Thou art then 
safe, so far? Madame, your servant. Here he took off his 
hat to Miss Blake. Lads, ride on to the White Hart and 
call for what you want, and take care of the nags. This is a 
joyful meeting, sweetheart. Here he kissed me. The 
duke, they say, draws thousands daily. I thought to find him 
in Taunton by this time. Why, we are as good as victorious 
already. Humphrey, I take it, is with his grace. My dear, 
even had the cause of freedom failed to move me I had been 
dragged by the silken ropes of love. Truly, I could not choose 
but come. There was the thought of these brave fellows march- 
ing to battle, and I all the time .skulking at home, who had 
ever been so loud upon their side. And there was the thought 
of Humphrey, braving the dangers of the field, tender though 
he be, and I, strong and lusty, sitting by the fire, and sleep- 
ing on a feather-bed; and always there was the thought of 
thee, my dear, among these rude soldiers — like Milton^s lady 
among the rabble rout, because well I know that even Chris- 
tian warriors (so called) are not lambs; and, again, there was 
my grandfather, who could find no rest, but continually walked 
to and fro, with looks that at one time said, ‘ Go, my son;^ 
and at others, ^ Nay; lest thou receive a hurt;^ and the white 
face of my mother, which said, as^plain as eyes could speak: 
^ He ought to go, he ought to go; and yet he may be killed. 

Oh, Kobin! Pray God there prove to be no more fight- 
ing !^^ 

Well, my dear, if I am not tedious to madame here — 

Oh, sir,^^ said Miss Blake, it is a joy to hear this talk.'’^ 
She told me afterward that it was a joy to look upon so gal- 
lant a gentleman, and such a pair of lovers. She, poor thing, 
had no sweetheart. 


120 


FOB FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


^^Then on Monday/^ Eobin continued, ^^the day before 
yesterday, I could refrain no longer, but laid the matter before 
my grandfather. Sweetheart, there is no better man in all 
the world. 

Of that I am well assured, Eobin. 

First, he said that if anything befell me he should go down 
in sorrow to his grave; yet that as to his own end an old man 
so near the grave should not be concerned about the manner 
of his end so tpng as he should keep to honor and duty. Next, 
that in his own youth he had himself gone forth willingly to 
fight in the cause of liberty, without counting the risk. Third- 
ly, that if my conscience did truly urge me to follow the duke, 
I ought to obey that voice in the name of God. And this with 
tears in his eyes, and yet a lively and visible satisfaction, that, 
as he himself had chosen, so his grandson would choose. 
‘ Sir,^ I said, ^ that voice of conscience speaks very loudly and 
clearly. I can not stifle it. Therefore, by your good leave, I 
will go. ^ Then he bade me take the best horse in the stable, 
and gave me a purse of gold, and so I made ready. 

Miss Blake at this point said that she was reminded of 
David. It was, I suppose, because Eobin was so goodly a lad 
to look upon; otherwise David, though an exile, did never en- 
deavor to pull King Saul from his throne. 

Then,'’ ^ Eobin continued, went to my mother. She 
wept, because war hath many dangers and chances; but she 
would not say me ^ Nay. ■’ And in the evening when the men 
came home I asked who would go with me. A dozen stout 
fellows — you know them all, sweetheart — stepped forth at 
once; another dozen would have come, but their wives pre- 
vented them. And so, mounting them on good cart-horses, I 
bade farewell and rode away.-’ ^ 

Sir,^'’ said Miss Blake, you have chosen the better part. 
You will be rewarded by so splendid a victory that it will sur- 
prise all the world; and for the rest of your life — yes, and for 
generations afterward — you will be ranked among the deliver- 
ers of your country. It is a great privilege, sir, to take part 
in the noblest passage of English history. Oh!^^ she clasped 
her hands, I am sorry that I am not a man, only because I 
would strike a blow in this sacred cause. But we are women, 
and we can but pray — and make flags. We can not die for 
the cause. 

The event proved that women can sometimes die for the 
cause, because she herself, if any woman ever did, died for her 
cause. 

Then Eobin left us in order to take steps about his men and 


FOE FAITH AKH FEEEDOM. 


121 


himself. Captain Hucker received them in the name of the 
duke. They joined the cavalry, and Eobin was made a cap- 
tain. This done, he rode out with the rest to meet the duke. . 

Now when his approach was known, everybody who had a 
horse rode forth to meet him, so that there followed him, not 
counting his army, so great a company that they almost made 
another army. Lord Grey rode on one side of him, and 
Colonel Speke on the other; Dr. Hooke, the chaplain, and my 
father rode behind. My heart swelled with joy to hear how the 
people, when they had shouted themselves hoarse, cried out for 
my father, because his presence showed that they would have 
once more that liberty of worship for want of which they had 
so long languished. The duke^s own chaplain, Mr. Ferguson, 
had got a naked sword in his hand, and was marching on foot, 
crying out, in almost vainglorious manner: I am Ferguson, 
the famous Ferguson, that Ferguson for whose head so many 
hundred pounds were offered. I am that man; I am that 
man. He wore a great gown and cassock; ♦which consorted 
ill with the sword in his hand; and in the evening he preached 
in the great church, while my father preached in the old meet- 
ing-house to a much larger congregation, and, I venture to 
think, a much more edifying discourse. 

The army marched through the town in much the same 
order as it had marched out of Lyme, and it seemed not much 
bigger, but the men marched more orderly, and there was less 
laughing and shouting. But the streets were so thronged that 
the men could hardly make their way. 

As soon as it was reported that the Duke was within a mile 
(they had that day marched sixteen miles, from Ilminster), the 
church bells were set a-ringing; children came out with baskets 
of flowers in readiness to strew them at his feet as he should 
pass — roses and lilies and all kinds of summer flowers, so that 
his horse had a most delicate carpet to walk upon; the com- 
mon people crowded the sides of the streets; the windows were 
filled with ladies, who waved their handkerchiefs, and called 
aloud on Heaven to bless the good duke, the brave duke, the 
sweet and lovely duke. If there were any malcontents in the 
town they kept snug; it would have cost them dear even to 
have been seen in the streets that day. The duke showed on 
this occasion a face full of hope and happiness; indeed, if he 
had not shown a cheerful countenance on such a day he would 
have been something less, or something greater, than human. 

I mean that he would have been either insensible and blockish 
not to be moved by such a welcome, or else he would have 
been a prophet, as foreseeing what would follow. He rode 


POU FAITH AK’H FREEDOM. 


122 

bareheaded, carrying his hat in his hand; he was dressed in a 
shining corselet, with a blue silk scarf and a purple coat; his 
long brown hair hung in curls upon his shoulders; his sweet 
lips were parted with a gracious smile; his beautiful brown 
eyes — never had any prince more lovely eyes — looked pleased 
and benignant; truly there was never made any man more 
comely than the Duke of Monmouth. The face of his father, 
and that of his uncle. King James, were dark and gloomy, but 
the duke^s face was naturally bright and cheerful; King 
Charleses long nose in him was softened and reduced to the 
proportions of manly beauty; in short, there was no feature 
that in his father was harsh and unpleasing but was in him 
sweet and beautiful. If I had thought him comely and like a 
king^s son when four years before he made his progress, I 
thought him now ten times as gracious and as .beautiful. He 
was thinner in the face, which gave his appearance the greater 
dignity; he had ever the most gracious smile and the most 
charming eyes; and at such a moment as this who could be- 
lieve the things wiiich they said about his wife and Lady Went- 
worth? Ko; they were inventions of his enemies; they must 
be base lies; so noble a presence could not conceal a guilty 
heart; he must be as good and virtuous as he was brave and 
lovely. Thus we talked, sitting in the window, and thus we 
cheered our souls. Even now, to think how great and good 
he looked on that day, it is difficult to believe that he was in 
some matters so vile. I am not of those who expect one kind 
of moral conduct from one man and a different kind from an- 
other; there is but one set of commandments for rich and 
poor, for prince and peasant. But the pity of it — oh! the 
pity of it with a prince! 

Never, in short, did one see such a tumult of joy; it is im- 
possible to speak otherwise; the people had lost' their wits with 
excess of joy. Nor did they show their welcome in shouting 
only for all the doors were thrown wide open and supplies and 
necessaries of all kinds were sent to the soldiers in the camp 
outside the town, so that the country lads declared they had 
never fared more sumptuously. There now rode after the 
duke several Non-conformist ministers besides my father. Thus 
there was the pious Mr. Larke, of Lyme ; he was an aged Bap- 
tist preacher, who thought it no shame to his profession to 
gird on a sword and to command a troop of horse; and others 
there were, whose names I forget, who had come forth to join 
the deliverer. 

In the market-place the duke halted, while his declaration 
was read aloud. One thing I could not approve. They | 


FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. 


123 


dragged forth three of the justices — High Churchmen and 
standing stoutly for King James — and forced them to hsten^ 
bare-headed, to the declaration: a thing which came near after- 
ward to their destruction. Yet they looked sour and unwill- 
ing, as any one would have testified. The declaration was a 
long document, and the reading of it took half an hour at 
least; but the people cheered all the time. 

After this they read a proclamation, warning the soldiers 
against taking aught without payment. But Eobin laughed, 
saying that this was the way with armies, where the general 
was always on the side of virtue, yet the soldiers were always 
yielding to temptation in the matter of sheep and poultry, that 
human nature must not be too much tempted, and camp 
rations are sometimes scanty. But it was a noble proclama- 
tion, and I can not but believe that the robbdries afterward 
complained of were committed by the tattered crew who fol- 
lowed the camp, rather than by brave fellows themselves. 

The duke lay at Captain Hucker^s house, over against the 
Three Cups Inn. That was a great honor for Mr. Hucker, a 
plain serge-maker, and there were many who were envious, 
thinking that the duke should not have gone to the house of 
so humble a person. It was also said that for his services Mr. 
Hucker boasted that he should expect nothing less than a 
coronet and the title of peer, once the business was safely dis- 

E atched. A peer to be made out of a master. serge-maker! 

ht we must charitably refuse to believe all that is reported, 
and, indeed (I say it with sorrow of that most unfortunate 
lady. Miss Blake), much idle tattle concerning neighbors was 
carried on in her house, and I was told that it was the same in 
every house in Taunton, so that the women spent all their 
time in talking of their neighbors'’ affairs, and what might be 
going on in the houses of their friends. This is a kind of talk 
which my father would never permit, as testifying to idle 
curiosity, and leading to undue importance concerning things 
which are fieeting and trivial. 

However, the duke was bestowed in Captain Hucker^s best 
bed — of that there was no doubt — and the bells rang and boii- 
fires played, and the people sung and shouted in the streets. 


CHAPTEE XVIII. 

THE MAIDS OF TAUHTOH. 

The next day was made remarkable in our eyes by an event 
which, though doubtless of less importance than the enlist- 


134 


Foil FAITH AHD FREEDOM. 


ment of a dozen recruits, seemed a very great thing indeed — 
namely, the presentation to the duke of the colors embroidered 
for him by Susan Blake’s school-girls. I was myself per- 
mitted to walk with the girls on this occasion, as if I had been 
one of them, though a stranger to the place, and but newly ar- 
rived — such was the kindness of Susan Blake, and her respect 
for the name of the learned and pious Dr. Eykin. 

At nine of*the clock the girls who were to carry the flags 
began to gather in the school-room. There were twenty-seven 
in all; but twelve only were the pupils of Miss Blake. The 
others were the pupils of Mrs. Musgrave, another school-mis- 
tress in the town. I remember not the names of all the girls, 
but some of them I remember. One was Katharine Bovet, 
daughter of Colonel Bovet — she it was who walked first and 
named those who followed; there was also Mary Blake, cousin 
of Susan, who was afterward thrown into prison with her cous- 
in, but presently was pardoned. Miss Hucker, •daughter of 
Captain Hucker, the master-sergemaker who entertained the 
duke, was another — these were of the White Eegiment; there 
were three daughters of Captain Herring, two daughters of 
Mr. Thomas Baker, one of Monmouth’s privy councillors; 
Mary Meade was the girl who carried the famous golden flag; 
and others whom I have forgotten. When we v^ere assembled, 
being dressed all in white, and each maid wearing the Mon- 
mouth colors, we took our flags and sallied forth. In the 
street there was almost as great a crowd to look on as the day 
before, when the duke rode in; and certainly it was a very 
pretty sight to see. First marched a man playing on the croud 
very briskly; after him, one who beat a tabor> and one who 
played a fife; so that we had music on our march. When the 
music stopped, we lifted our voices and sung a psalm all to- 
gether; that done, the crouder began again. 

As for the procession, no one surely had ever seen the like 
of it! After the music walked six-and-twenty girls, the 
youngest eight and the oldest not more than twelve. They 
marched two by two, very orderly, all dressed in white and 
blue favors, and every girl carrying in her hands a flag of silk 
embroidered by herself, assisted by Miss Blake or some other 
older person, with devices appropriate to the nature of the en- 
terprise in hand. For one flag had upon it, truly figured in 
scarlet silk, an open Bible, because it was for liberty to read 
and ex^oound that book that the men were going forth to 
light. Upon another was embroidered a great cross; ujion a 
third were the arms of the duke; a fourth bore upon it, to 
show the zeal of the people^ the arms of the town of Taunton; 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


125 


and a fifth had both a Bible and a drawn sword; and so forth^ 
every one with a legend embroidered upon it plain for all to 
read. The flags were affixed to stout white staves, and as the 
girls walked apart from each* other and at a due distance, the 
flags all flying in the wind made a pretty sight indeed, so that 
some of the women who looked on shed tears. Among the 
flags was one which I needs must mention, because, unless the 
device was communicated by some person deep in the duke^s 
counsels, it most strangely joined with the event of the fol- 
lowing day. Mary Meade, poor child! carried it. We called 
it the Golden Flag, because it had a crown worked in gold 
thread upon it and the letters J. R.'’^ A fringe of lace was 
sewed round it, so that it was the richest flag of all. What 
could the crown with the letters J. R.'’^ mean, but that 
James, Duke of Monmouth, would shortly assume the crown 
of these three kingdoms? 

Last of all walked Miss Susan Blake, and I by her side. She 
bore in one hand a Bible bound in red leather stamped with 
gold, and in the other a naked sword. 

The duke came forth to meet us, standing bareheaded be- 
fore the porch. There w’ere standing beside and behind him. 
Lord Grey, his two chaplains. Dr. Hooke and Mr. Fergu- 
son, and my father, Mr. Larke, the Baptist minister of Lyme- 
Regis (he wore a corselet and carried a sword), and the 
colonels of his regiments. His body-guard were drawn up 
across the street, looking brave and splendid in their new 
favors. The varlets waited beyond with the horses for the 
duke^s party. Who, to look upon the martial array, the 
bravery of the Guard, the gallant bearing of all, the confi- 
dence in their looks, and the presence, which should surely 
bring a blessing, of the ministers of religion, would think that 
all this pomp and promise could be shattered at a single blow? 

As each girl advanced in her turn, she knelt on one knee 
and offered her flag, bowing her head (we had practiced this 
ceremony several times at school until we were all quite per- 
fect in our parts). Then the duke stepped forward and raised 
her, tenderly kissing her. Then she stood aside, holding her 
flag still in her hands. 

My turn — because I had no flag — came last but one. Miss 
Susan Blake being the last. Now — I hope it was not folly or 
a vainglorious desire to be distinguished by any particular 
notice of his grace — I could not refrain from hanging the ring, 
which the duke had given me at Ilchester five years ago, out- 
side my dress by a blue ribbon. Miss Blake, to whom I had 
told the story of the ring, advised me to do so, partly to show 


126 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


my loyalty to the duke, and partly because it was a pretty 
thing, and one which some women would much desire to 
possess. 

Miss Katharine Bovet informed the duke that I was the 
daughter of the learned preacher. Dr. Comfort Eykin. When 
I knelt he raised me. Then, as he was about to salute me, 
his eyes fell upon the ring and he looked first at me and then 
at the ring. 

Madame, he said, this ring I ought to know. If I 
mistake not, there are the initials ‘ J. S/ upon it?^^ 

Sir,^^ I replied, ^^the ring was your own. Your grace 
was so good as to bestow it upon me in your progress through 
the town of Ilchester, five years ago.'’^ 

Gad so!""^ he said, laughing; I remember now. ^Twas a 
sweet and lovely child whom I kissed, and now thou art a sweet 
and lovely maiden. Art thou truly the daughter of Doctor 
Comfort Eykin?^^ — he looked behind him, but my father 
neither heard nor attended, being wrapped in thought. ^Tis 
strange; his daughter! ^Tis indeed wonderful that such a 
child should — Here he stopped. Fair Eose of Somerset 
I called thee then. Fair Eose of Somerset I call thee again. 
Why, if I could place thee at the head of my army all England 
w^ouJd certainly follow, as if Helen of Troy or Queen Venus 
herself did lead.^^ So he kissed me on the cheek with much 
warmth — more, indeed, than was necessary to show a gracious 
and friendly good-will, and suffered me to step aside. Doc- 
tor Eykin^s daughter he repeated, with a kind of wonder. 
Why should not Doctor Eykin have a daughter 
When I told Eobin of this gracious salutation he first turned 
very red apd then he laughed. Then he said that everybody 
knew the duke, but he must not attempt any court freedoms 
in the Protestant camp; and if he were to try — then he broke 
off short, changed color again, and then he kissed me, saying 
that of course the duke meant nothing but kindlitiess, but 
that, for his own part, he desired not his sweetheart to be 
kissed by anybody but himself. So I suppose my boy was 
jealous. But the folly of being jealous of so great a prince, 
who could not possibly have the least regard for a simple coun- 
try maiden, ajpA who had known the great and beautiful court 
ladies — it made me laugh to think that Eobin could be so 
foolish as to be jealous of the duke. 

Then it was Miss Susan Blake^s turn. She stepped forward 
very briskly, and knelt down, and placed the Bible in the 
duke^s left hand and the sword in his right. 

' ^ she s^id (speaking, the words we had made up and 


S’OH FAtTH A-Kh freedom. 


12 ?^ 

she had learned), is in the name of the women of Taunton 
— nay, of the women of all England — that I give you the Book 
of the Word of God, the most precious treasure vouchsafed to 
man, so that all may learn that you are come for no other 
purpose than to maintain the right of the English people to 
search the Scriptures for themselves; and I give you also, sir, 
a sword with which to defend those rights. In addition, sir, 
the women can only give your grace the offering of their con- 
tinual prayers in behalf of the cause, and for the safety and 
prosperity of your highness and your army. 

Madame,'^ said the duke, much moved by this spectacle 
of devotion, I am come, believe me, for no other purpose 
than to defend the truths contained in this Book, and to seal 
my defense with my blood, if that need be."^^ 

Then the duke mounted, and we marched behind him in 
single file, each girl led by a soldier, till we came to the camp, 
when our flags were taken from us, and we returned home 
and took off our white dresses. I confess that I laid mine 
down with a sigh. White becomes every maiden, and my only 
wear till then had been of russet-brown. And all that day 
we acted over again — in our talk and in our thoughts — our 
beautiful procession, and we repeated the condescending words 
of the duke, and admired the graciousness of his kisses, and 
praised each other for ■ our admirable behavior, and listened, 
with pleasure unspeakable, while Susan Blake prophesied that 
we should become immortal by the ceremony of that day. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

KING MONMOUTH AND HIS CAMP. 

Next day, the town being thronged with people and the 
; young men pressing in from all quarters to enroll themselves 
(over four thousand joined the colors at Taunton alone), an- 
1 other proclamation was read — that, namely, by which the duke 
claimed the throne. Many opinions have been given as to this 
step. For the duke^s enemies maintain, first, that his mother 
! was never married to King Charles the Second (indeed, there 
■ is no doubt that the king always denied the marriage); next, 
that an illegitimate son could never be permitted to sit upon 
the ancient throne of this realm; and, thirdly, that in usurp- 
ing the crown the duke broke faith with his friends, to whom 
he had solemnly given his word that he would not put forward 
any such pretensions. Nay, some have gone so far as to allege 
that he was not the son of Charles at all, but of some other 


FOE t'AlTH AKD FEEEBOM. 


1^8 

whom they even name; and they have pointed to his face as 
showing no resemblance at all to that swarthy and gloomy- 
looking king. On the other hand, the duke^s friends say that 
there were in his hands clear proof of the marriage; that the 
promise given to his friends was conditional, and one which 
could be set aside by circumstances; that the country gentry, 
to whom a Eepublic was most distasteful, were afraid that he 
designed to re-establish that form of government; and, further, 
that his friends were all fully aware from the beginning of his 
intentions. 

On these points I know nothing; but when a thing has been 
done, it is idle to spend time in arguing that it was well or ill 
done. James, Duke of Monmouth, was now James, King of 
Great Britain and Ireland; and if we were ^11 rebels before 
who had risen in the name of religion and liberty, I suppose 
we were all ten times as much rebels now, when we had, in 
addition, set up another king, and declared King James to be 
a usurper, and no more than the Duke of York. Nay, that 
there might be wanting no single circumstance of aggravation, 
it was in this proclamation declared that the Duke of York 
had caused his brother, the late king, to be secretly poisoned. 
I know not what foundation exists for this accusation; but I 
have been told that it gave offense unto many, and that it was 
an ill-advised thing to say. 

The proclamation was read aloud at the Market Cross by 
Mr. Tyley, of Taunton, on the Saturday morning, before a 
great concourse ‘of people. It ended with the words: ^‘We 
therefore, the noblemen, gentlemen, and Commons at present 
assembled in the names of ourselves and of all the loyal and 
Protestant noblemen, gentlemen and Commons of England, 
in pursuance of our duty and allegiance, and for the deliver- 
ing of the kingdom from Popery, tyranny, and oppression, do 
recognize, publish, and proclaim the said high and mighty 
Prince James, Duke of Monmouth, as lawful and rightful sov- 
ereign and king, by the name of James II., by the grace of 
God, Kipg of England, Scotland, France and Ireland, De- 
fender of the Faith. God save the kihg!"^ 

After this the duke was always saluted as king, prayed for 
as king, and styled His Majesty. He also touched some 
(as only the king can do) for the king^'s-evil, and, it is said, 
wrought many miracles of healing, a thing which, being 
noised abroad, should have strengthened the faith of the peo- 
ple in him. But the malignity of our enemies caused these 
cases of healing to be denied, or else explained as fables and 
inventions of the duke^s friends. 


mn FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


129 


Among the accessions of this day was one which I can not 
forbear to mention. It was that of an old soldier who had 
been one of Cromweirs captains. Colonel Basset byname. He 
rode in, being a man advanced in years, yet still strong and 
hale, at the head of a considerable conijjany raised by himself. 
^Twas hoped that his example would be followed by the adhesion 
of many more of OromwelBs men, but the event proved other- 
wise. Perhaps, being old Eei^ublicans, they were deterred by 
the proclamation of Monmouth as king. Perhaps they had 
grown slothful with age, and were now unwilling to face once 
mofe the dangers and fatigues of a campaign. Another re- 
cruit was the once famous Colonel Perrot, who had been en- 
gaged with Colonel Blood in the robbery of the crown jewels 
— though the addition of a robber to our army was not a mat- 
ter of pride. He came, it was afterward said, because he was 
desperate, his fortunes broken, and with no other hope than 
to follow the fortunes of the duke. 

It became known in the course of the day that the army was 
to march on the Sunday. Therefore everybody on Saturday 
evening repaired to the camp; some to bid farewell and God- 
speed to their friends, and others to witness the humors of a 
camp. I was fortunate in having Eobin for a companion and 
protector, the place being rough, and the behavior and lan- 
guage of the men coarse even beyond what one expects at a 
country fair. The recruits still kept pouring in from all parts; 
but, as I have already said, many were disheartened when they 
found that there were no arms, and went home again. They 
were not all riotous and disorderly. Some of the men — those, 
namely, who were older and more sober-minded — we found 
gathered together in groups, earnestly engaged in conversa- 
tion. 

They are considering the proclamation,^^ said Eobin. 
Truly we did not expect that our duke would so soon become 
king. They say he is illegitimate. What then? Let him 
mount the throne by right of arms, as Oliver Cromwell could 
have done had he pleased; who asks whether Oliver was 
illegitimate or no? The country will not have another Com- 
monwealth, and it will no longer endure a Catholic king. Let 
us have King Monmouth, then; who is there better?^^ 

In all the camp there was none who spoke with greater 
cheerfulness and confidence than Eobin. Yet he did not dis- 
guise from himself that there might be warn! work. 

The king^s troops, he said, are closing in all round us. 
That is certain. Yet even if they all join we are still more 
numerous and in much better heart; of that I am assured. 

5 


130 


FOE FAITH AND FEEEDOM. 


At Wellington, the Duke of Albemarle commands the Devon- 
shire Militia; Lord Churchill is at Chard with the Somerset 
Eegiment; Lord Bath is reported to be marching upon us with 
the Cornishmen; the Duke of Beaufort hath the Gloucester 
Militia at Bristol; Lord Pembroke is at Chippenham with the 
Wiltshire Train-bands; Lord Feversham is on the march with 
the king^s standing army. What then? Are these men Pro- 
testants or are they Papists? Answer me that, sweetheart ?''^ 

Alas! had they been true Protestants there would have been 
such an answer as would have driven King James across the 
water three years sooner. 

The camp was now like a fair, only much finer and bi|ger 
than any fair I had ever seen. That of Lyme-Eegis could not 
be compared with it. There were booths where they sold gin- 
gerbread, cakes, ale, and cider; Monmouth favors for the re- 
cruits to sew upon their hats or sleeves; shoes and stockings 
were sold in some, and even chap-books were displayed. Men 
and women carried about in baskets last year^’s withered ap- 
ples, with Kentish cobs and walnuts; there were booths where 
they fried sausages and roasted pork all day long; tumblers 
and clowns were performing in others; painted and dressed-up 
girls danced in others; there was a bull-baiting; a man was 
making a fiery oration on the duke^s proclamation; but I saw 
no one preaching a sermon. There were here and there com- 
panies of country lads exercising with pike and halbert; and 
others, more advanced, with the loading and firing of their 
muskets. There were tables at which sat men with cards and 
dice gambling, shouting when they won and cursing when they 
lost; others, of more thrifty mind, sat on the ground, prac- 
ticing their trade of tailor or cobbler, thus losing no money 
though they did go soldiering; some polished weapons and 
sharpened swords, pikes, and scythes; nowhere did we find 
any reading the Bible, or singing hymns, or listening to ser- 
mons. Save for the few groups of sober men of whom I have 
spoken, the love* of amusement carried all away; and the 
officers of the army, who might have turned them back to sober 
thought, were not visible. Everywhere noise; everywhere 
beating of drums, playing of pipes, singing of songs, bawling 
and laughing. Among the men there ran about a number of 
saucy gypsy girls, their brown faces showing under red ker- 
chiefs, their black eyes twinkling (truly they are pretty creat- 
ures to look upon when they are young; but they have no re- 
ligion, and say of themselves that they had no souls). These i 
girls talked with each other in their own language,, which none J 
out of their own nation— except the tinker-folk, who are said J 


EOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. 


131 


to be their cousins — understand. But English they talk very 
well, and they are so clever that, it is said, they will talk to a 
Somersetshire man in good broad Somerset, and to a man of 
Norfolk in his^ own speech, though he of Norfolk would not 
understand him of Somerset. 

They are the vultures,'’^ said Eobin, who follow for 
prey. Before the battle these women cajole the soldiers out of 
their money, and after the battle their men rob and even mur- 
der the wounded and plunder the dead.^^ 

Then one of them ran and stood before us. 

Let me tell thy fortune, handsome gentleman? Let me 
tell thine, fair lady? A sixpence or a groat to cross my palm, 
captain, and you shall know all that is to happen. 

Eobin laughed, but gave her sixpence. 

‘‘ Look me in the face, fair lady — she spoke good plain 
English, this black-eyed wench, though but a moment before 
she had been talking broad Somerset to a young recruit — 
^Mook me in the face; yes. All is not smooth. He loves 
you, but there will be separation and trouble. One comes 
between, a big man with a red face; he parts you. There is a 
wedding; I see your ladyship plain. Why, you are crying at 
it, you cry all the time; but I do not see this gentleman. 
Then there is another wedding — yes, another — and I see you 
at both. You will be twice married. Yet be of good heart, 
fair lady."^^ 

She turned away and ran after another couple, no doubt 
with much the same tale. 

How should there be a wedding, I asked, ^Mf I am there 
and you not there, Eobin — and I to be crying? And how 
could I — oh, Eobin! — how could I be married twice?^^ 

Nay, sweetheart, she could not tell what wedding it was. 
She only uttered the gibberish of her trade; I am sorry that I 
wasted a sixpence upon her.-’^ 

Eobin, is it magic that they practice — these gypsies? Do 
they traffic with the devil? We ought not to suffer witches to 
live among us. 

Most are of opinion that they have no other magic than 
the art of guessing, which theyT^rn to do very quickly, put- 
ting things together from their appearance; so that if brother 
and sister walk out together they are taken to be lovers, and 
promised a happy marriage and many children. 

That may be so, and perhaps the fortune told by this 
gypsy was only guess-work. But I can not believe it; for the 
event proved that she had in reality possessed an exact knowl- 
edge of what was about to happen. 


132 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


Some of the gypsy women — hut these were the older women, 
who had lost their good looks, though not their impudence — 
were singing songs, and those, as Kobin told me, songs not fit 
to be sung; and one old crone, sitting before her tent beside a 
roaring wood fire over which hung a great ^saucepan, sold 
charms against shot and steel. The lads bought these greedily, 
giving sixpence apiece for them, so that the old witch must 
have made a sackful of money. They came and looked on 
shyly. Then one would say to the other: What thinkest, 
lad? Is there aught in it?^^ And the other would say: 

Truly I know not; but she is a proper witch, and ITl buy 
one. We may have to fight. Best make sure of a whole 
skin.^^ And so he bought one, and then all bought. The 
husbands of the gypsy women were engaged, meantime, we 
understood, in robbing the farm-yards in the neighborhood, 
the blame being afterward laid upon our honest soldiers. 

Then there was a ballad-monger singing a song about a man 
and a broom, and selling it (to t^hose who would buy), printed 
on a long slip of paper. The first lines were, 

‘ There was an old man, and he lived in a wood, 

And his trade it was making a broom.” 

But I heard no more, because Eobin hurried me away. Then 
there were some who drank too much cider or beer, and were 
now reeling about with stupid faces and glassy eyes; there were 
some who were lying speechless or asleep upon the grass; and 
some were cooking supper over fires after the manner of the 
gypsies. 

I have seen enough, Eobin, I said. Alas for sacred 
religion if these are her defenders 

“ ^Tis always so,^^ said Eobin, in time of war. We must 
encourage our men to keep up their hearts. Should we be 
constantly reminding them that to-morrow half of them may 
be lying dead on the battle-field? Then they would mope and 
hang their heads, and would presently desert. 

‘‘ One need not preach of death, but one should preach of 
godliness and of sober joy. Look but at those gypsy wenches 
and those lads rolling abouLdrunk. Are these things decent? 
If they escape the dangers of war, will it make thhm happy to 
look back upon the memory of this camp? Is it fit prepara- 
tion to meet their Maker ?^^ 

In times of peace, sweet saint, these lads remember easily 
that in the midst of life we are in death, and they govern 
themselves accordingly. In times of war every man hopes for 
his own part to escape with a whole skin, though his neighbor 


POE FAITH AKD FEEEHOH. 


133 


fall. That is why we are all so blithe and jolly. Let us now 
go home before the night falls and the mirth becomes riotous 
and unseemly. 

We passed a large booth whence there issued sounds of sing- 
ing. It was a roofless inclosure of canvas. 8ome ale-house 
man of Taunton had set it up. Eobin drew aside the canvas 
door. 

Look in/’ he said. See the brave defenders of religion 
keeping up their hearts. 

It was furnished with benches and rough tables; at one end 
were casks. The benches were crowded with soldiers, every 
man with a pot before him, and the varlets were running back- 
ward and forward with cans of ale and cider. Most of the 
men were smoking pipes of tobacco, and they were singing a 
song which seemed to have no end. One bawled the lines, 
and when it came to the Let the hautboys play!^^ and the 
‘‘ Huzza,!” they all roared out together. 

‘‘ Now, now, the duke’s health, 

And let the hautboys play, 

While the troops on their march shall 

Huzza! huzza! huzza! 

Now, now, the duke’s health. 

And let the hautboys play, 

While the drums and the trumpets sound from the shore. 

Huzza! huzza! huzza!” 

They sung this verse several times over. Then another be- 
gan: 

” Now, now. Lord Grey’s health. 

And let the hautboys play. 

While the troops on their march shall 

Huzza! huzza! huzza; * 

Now, now. Lord Grey’s health. 

And let the hautboys play. 

While the drums and the trumpets sound from the shore. 

Huzza! huzza! huzza!” 

Next a third voice took it up: 

“ Now, now, the colonel’s health. 

And let the hautboys play;” 

and then a fourth and a fifth, and the last verse was bawled as 
lustily and with so much joy that one would have thought the 
mere singing would .have gotten them the victory. Men are 
so made, I suppose, that they can not work together without 
singing and music to keep up tlieir hearts. Sailors sing when 


134 


FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. 



they weigh anchor; men who unlade ships sing as they carry 
out the bales; even CromwelFs Ironsides could not march in 
silence, but sung psalms as they marched. 

The sun was set and the twilight falling when we left the 
camp; and there was no abatement of the roaring and singing, 
but rather an increase. 

They will go on,^^ said Eobin, until the drink or their 
money gives out; then they will lie down and sleep. You have 
now seen a camp, sweetheart. It is not, truth to say, as decor- 
ous as a conventicle, nor is the talk so godly as in Sir Christo- 
pher’s hall. For rough fellows there must be rough play; in 
a month these lads will be veterans; the singing will have 
grown stale to them; the black-eyed gypsy women will have 
no more power to charm away their money; they will under- 
stand the meaning of war; the camp will be sober if it is not 
religious. 

So we walked homeward, I, for my part, saddened to think 
in what a spirit of riot these young men, whom I had pictured 
so full of godly zeal, were preparing to meet the chance of im- 
mediate death and judgment. 

Sweet,^^ said Eobin, I read thy thoughts in thy troubled 
eyes. Pray for us. Some of us will fight none the worse for 
knowing that there are good women who pray for them. 

We were now back in the town; the streets were still full of 
people, and no one seemed to think of bed. Presently we 
passed the Castle Inn; the windows were open and we could see 
a great company of gentlemen sitting round a table on which 
were candles lighted and bowls full of strong drink; nearly 
every man had his pipe at his lips and his glass before him, 
and one of them was singing to the accompaniment of a 
guitar. Their faces were red and swollen, as if they had taken 
too much. At one end of the table sat Humphrey. What? 
Could Humphrey too be a reveler with the rest? His face, 
which was gloomy, and his eyes, which were sad, showed that 
he was not. 

The officers have supped together,” said Eobin. ‘‘It 
may be long before we get such good quarters again. A cup 
of hipsy and a song in good-fellowship, thou wilt not grudge 
so much?” 

“ ISlay,” I said, “ Tis all of a piece. Like man, like mas- 
ter. Officers and men alike — all drinking and singing. Is 
there not one good man in all the army?” 

As I spoke one finished a song at which all laughed except 
Humphrey, and drummed the table with their fists and 
shouted. 


FOR FAITH AKD FREEDOM. 135 

Then one who seemed to be president of the table turned to 
Humphrey. 

Doctor/^ he said, ^^thou wilt not drink, thou dost not 
laugh, and thou hast not sung. Thou must be tried by court- 
martial, and the sentence of the court is a brimming glass of 
punch or a song. 

Then, gentlemen, said Humphrey, smiling, I will give 
you a song. But blame me not if you mislike it; I made the 
song in praise of the sweetest woman in the world. He took 
the guitar and struck - the strings. When he began to sing 
my cheeks flamed and my breath came and went, for I knew 
the song; he had given it to me four years agone. Who was 
the sweetest woman in the world? Oh! he made this song for 
me! — he made this song for me, and none but me! But these 
rude revelers would not know that — and I never guessed that 
the song was for me. How could I think that he would write 
these extravagancies for me? But poets can not mean what 
they say — 

‘‘ As rides the moon in azure skies, 

The twinkling stars beside, 

As when in splendor she doth rise, 

Their lesser lights they hide. 

So beside Celia, when her face we see. 

All unregarded other maidens be. 

“ As Helen in the town of Troy 
Shone fair beyond all thought, 

That to behold her was a joy 
By death' too poorly bought. 

So when fair Celia deigns the lawn to grace. 

All life, all joy, dwells in her lovely face. 

“ As the sweet river floweth by 
Green banks and alders tall. 

It stayeth not for prayer or sigh, 

Nor answereth if we call, 

So Celia heeds not though Love cry and weep; 

She heavenward wendeth while we earthward creep. 

The marbled saint, so cold and pure. 

Minds naught of earthly ways. 

Nor can man’s gauds entice or lure 
That fixdd heavenly gaze; 

So, Celia, though thou queen and empress art, 

To Heaven, to Heaven alone, belongs thy heart.” 

Now while Humphrey sung this song a hush fell upon the 
revelers: they had expected nothing but a common drinking 
song. After the bawling and the noise and the ribaldry ^twas 


136 


FOR FAITH AKD FREEDOM. 


like a breath of fresh air after the closeness of a prison^ or like 
a drink of pure water to one half dead with thirst. 

Eobin/^ I said, there is one good man in the camp."^^ I 
say that while Humphrey sung this song — which, to be sure, 
was neither a drinking song, nor a party song, nor a song of 
wickedness and folly — the company looked at each other in 
silence, and neither laughed nor offered to interrupt. Nay, 
there were signs of grace in some of their faces, which became 
grave and thoughtful. When Humphrey finished it he laid 
down the guitar, and rose up with a bow, saying: I have 
sung my song, gentlemen all, and so, good-night, and walked 
out of the room. 

‘‘ Eobin,^^ I said again, thank God there is one good man 
in the camp! I had forgotten Humphrey. 

Yes,^^ Eobin replied, Humphrey is a good man if ever 
there was one. But he is glum. Something oppresses him. 
His eyes are troubled, and he hangs his head; or if he laughs 
at all, it is as if he would rather cry. Yet all the way home 
from Holland he was joyful, save when his head was held over 
the side of the ship. He sung and laughed; he spoke of great 
things about to happen. I have never known him more hap- 
py. And now his face is gloomy, and he sighs when he thinks 
no one watcheth him. Perhaps, like thee, sweet, he can not 
abide the noise and riot of the camp. He would fain see every 
man Bible in hand. To-day he spent two hours with the duke 
before the council, and was with thy father afterward. ^Tis 
certain that the duke hath great confidence in him. Why is 
he so gloomy? He bitterly reproached me for leaving Sir 
Christopher, as if he alone had a conscience to obey or honor 
to remember 

Humphrey came forth at this moment and stood for a mo- 
ment on the steps. Then he heaved a great sigh and walked 
away slowly, with hanging head, not seeing us. 

‘‘What is the matter with him?^^ said Eobin. “Perhaps 
they flout him for being a physician. These fellows have no 
respect for learning or for any one who is not a country gen- • 
tleman. AVell, perhaps when we are on the march he will 
again pick up his spirits. They are going to sing again. 
Shall we go, child?^^ 

But the president called a name which made me stop a little 
longer. 

“ Barnaby!^^ he cried; jolly Captain Barnaby! Now that 
Doctor Graveairs hath left us we will begin the night. Barna- 
by, my hero, thy song. Fill up, gentlemen! The night is 


POK PAITH AKD PSEEDOM. 


137 


young, and to-morrow we march. Captain Barnaby, tip us a 
sea-song. Silence, gentlemen, for the captain^s song!^^ 

It was my brother that they called upon — none other. He 
got up from his place at the summons, and rose to his feet. 
Heavens! what a broad man he seemed compared with those 
who sat beside him! His face was red and his cheeks swollen 
because of the strong drink he had taken. In his hand he 
held a full glass of it. Kobin called it hipsy, and it is a mixt- 
ure, of wine, brandy, and water, with lemon juice and sugar — 
very heady and strong. 

Said not Barnaby that there was one religion for a landsman 
and another for a sailor? I thought of that as he stood look- 
ing round him. If it were so, it would be truly a happy cir- 
cumstance for most sailors; but I know not on what assurance 
this belief can be argued. Then Barnaby waved his hand. 

Yoho, my lads!^^ he shouted. The ship^s in port, and 
the crew has gone ashore. 

Then he began to sing in a deep voice which made the 
glasses ring: 

“ Shut the door, lock the door, 

Out of the window fling the key; 

Hasten; bring me more, bring me more; 

Fill it up — All it up for me. 

The daylight which you think, 

The daylight which you think, 

The daylight which you think, 

’Tis but the candle’s flicker; 

The morning star will never wink 
The morning star will never wink, 

Till there cometh stint of liquor. 

For ’tis tipple, tipple, tipple all around the world, my lads, 

And the sun in drink is nightly lapped and curled; 

And to-night let us drink, and to-morrow we’ll to sea. 

For ’tis tipple, tipple, tipple-— yes, ’tis tipple, tipple, tipple — Makes 
the world and us to jee."’ ’ 

Take* me home, Eobin,^^ I said; /‘I have seen and heard 
enough. Alas! we have need of all the prayers that we can 
utter from the depths of our heart, and more."^^ ^ 


CHAPTEE XX. 

benjamin’s waening. 

Since I have so much to tell of Benjamin’s evil conduct, it 
must in justice be recorded of him that at this juncture he en- 
deavored, knowing more of the world than we of Somerset, to 


138 


FOR FAITH AKD FREEDOM. 


warn and dissuade his cousins from taking part in any attempt 
which should be made the west. And this he did by means 
of a letter written to his father. I know not how far the let- 
ter might have succeeded, but, unfortunately, it arrived two 
or three days too late — when the boys had already joined the 
insurgents. 

^‘Honored wrote), — I write this epistle being 

much concerned in spirit lest my grandfather, whose leanings 
are well known, not only in his own county, but also to the 
court, should be drawn into, or become cognizant of, some at- 
tempt to raise the West Country against their lawful king. It 
will not be news to you that the Earl of Argyll hath landed in 
Scotland, where he will meet with such a reception which will 
doubtless cause him to repent of his rashness. It is also cur- 
rently reported, and everywhere believed, that the Duke of 
Monmouth intends immediately to embark and cross the sea 
with the design of raising the country in rebellion. The Dis- 
senters, who have been going about with sour looks for five- 
and-twenty years, venture now to smile and look pleased in 
anticipation of another civil war. This may follow, but its 
termination, I think, will not be what they expect. 

I have also heard that my cousin Humphrey, Doctor 
Eykin^s favorite pupil, who hath never concealed his opinions, 
hath lately returned from Holland (where the exiles are gath- 
ered), and passed through London, accompanied by Eobin. 
I have further learned that while in London he visited (but 
alone, without Eobin^s knowledge) many of those who are 
known to be friends of the duke and red-hot Protestants. 
Wherefore I greatly fear that he hath been in correspondence 
with the exiles, and is cognizant of their designs, and may 
even be their messenger to announce the intentions of his Prot- 
estant champion. Certain I am that should any chance occur 
of striking a blow for freedom of worship, my cousin, though 
he is weak and of slender frame, will join the attempt. He 
will also endeavor to draw after him every one in his power. 
Therefore, my dear father, use all your influence to withstand 
him, and, if he must for his part plunge into ruin, persuade 
my grandfather and my cousin Eobin to stay quiet at home. 

I hear it on the best authority that the temper of the 
country, and especially in your part of it, hath been carefully 
studied by the Government, and is perfectly well known. 
Those who would risk life and lands for the Duke of Mon- 
mouth are few indeed. He may, perhaps, draw a rabble after 
liim, but no more. The fat tradesmen who most long for the 


POR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 139 

conventicle will not fight^ though they may pray for him. The 
country gentlemen may be Protestants, but they are mostly 
for the Church of England and the king. It is quite true that 
his majesty is a Roman Catholic, nor hath he ever concealed 
or denied his religion, being one who scorns deceptions. It is 
also true that his profession of faith is a stumbling-block to 
many who find it hard to reconcile their teaching of -Non-Re- 
sistance and Divine Right with the introduction of the mass and 
the Romish priest. But the country hath not yet forgotten 
the iron rule of the Independent; and rather than suffer him 
to return, the people will endure a vast deal of royal preroga- 
tive. 

‘^It is absolutely certain — assure my grandfather on this 
point, whatever he may learn from Humphrey — that the bet- 
ter sort will never join Monmouth, whether he comes as an- 
other Cromwell to restore the commonwealth, or whether he 
aspires to the crown, and dares to maintain — a thing which 
King Charles did always stoutly deny — that his mother was 
married. Is it credible that the ancient throne of these king- 
doms should be mounted by the base-born son of Lucy Waters? 

I had last night the honor of drinking a bottle of wine 
with that great lawyer. Sir George Jeffreys. The conversation 
turned upon this subject. We were assured by the judge that 
the affections of the people are wholly with the king; that the 
liberty of worship which he demands for himself he will extend 
to the country, so that the last pretense of reason for disaffec- 
tion shall be removed. Why should the people run after Mon- 
mouth, when, if he were successful, he would give no more 
than the king is ready to give? I was also privately warned 
by Sir George that my grandfather^ s name is unfavorably 
noted, and his actions and speeches will be watched. There- 
fore, sir, I humbly beg that you will represent to him, and to 
my cousins, and to Doctor Eykin himself, first the hopeless- 
ness of any such enterprise and the certainty of defeat; and 
next the punishment which will fall upon the rebels and upon 
those who lend them any countenance. Men of such a tem- 
per as Doctor Comfort Eykin will doubtless go to the scaffold 
willingly, with their mouths full of the texts which they apply 
to themselves on all occasions. For such I have no pity, yet 
for the sake of his wife and daughter I would willingly, if I 
could, save him from the fate which will be his if Monmouth 
lands on the west. And as for my grandfather, Tis terrible to 
think of his white hairs blown by the breeze while the hang- 
man adjusts the knot; and I should shuddor to see the black- 
ened limbs of Robin stuck upon poles for all the world to see. 


140 


FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. 


It is my present intention, if my affairs permit, to follow 
my fortunes on the western circuit in the autumn, when I 
shall endeavor to ride from Taunton or Exeter to Bradford 
Orcas. My practice grows apace. Daily I am heard in the 
courts. The judges already know me and listen to me. The 
juries begin to feel the weight of my arguments. The attor- 
neys besiege my chambers. For a junior I am in great de- 
mand. It is my prayer that jou, sir, may live to see your son 
chancellor of the exchequer and a peer of the realm. Less 
than chancellor will not content me. As for marriage, that 
might hinder my rise; I shall not marry yet. There is in your 
parish, sir, one who knows my mind upon this matter. I shall 
be pleased to think that you will assure her — you know very 
well whom I mean — that my mind is unaltered, and that my 
way is now plain before me. So, I remain, with dutiful re- 
spect, your obedient son, B. B. 

This letter arrived, I say, after the departure of Robin with 
his company of village lads. 

When Mr. Boscorel had read it slowly and twice over so as 
to lose no point of the contents, he sat and pondered awhile. 
Then he arose, and with troubled face he sought Sir Christo- 
pher, to whom he read it through. Then he waited for Sir 
Christopher to speak. 

The boy writes, said his honor, after awhile, according 
to his lights. He repeats the things he hears said by his boon 
companions. Nay, more, he believes them. Why, it is easy 
for them to swear loyalty and to declare in their cups where 
the affections of the people are placed. 

Sir Christopher, what is done can not be undone. The 
boys are gone — alas! — but you still remain. Take heed for a 
space what you say as well as what you do. 

‘‘ How should they know the temper of the country?^’ Sir 
Christopher went on regardless. What doth the foul- 
mouthed profligate Sir George Jeffreys know concerning sober 
and godly people? These are not noisy Templars; they are 
not profligates of the court; they are not haunters of tavern 
and pot-house; they are not those who frequent the play- 
house. Judge Jeffreys knows none such. They are lovers of 
the Word of God; they wish to worship after their fashion; 
they hate the Pope and all his works. Let us hear what these 
men say upon the matter. 

Nay,'’^ said Mr. Boscorel; I care not greatly what they 
say. But would to God the boys were safe returned 

Benjamin means well,^^ Sir Christopher went on. I 


FOR FAITH AKD FREEDOM. 


141 


take this warning kindly; he meant well. It pleases me that 
in the midst of the work and the feasting, which he loves, he 
thinks upon us. Tell him, son-in-law, that I thank him for 
his letter. It shows that he has preserved a good heart. 

As for his good heart — Mr. Boscorel stroked his nose 
with his forefinger — so long as Benjamin gets what he wants 
— which is Ben j amines mess, and five times the mess of any 
other — there is no doubt of his good heart. 

‘‘Worse things than these, said Sir Christopher, “were 
said of us when the civil wars began. The king^s troops would 
ride us down; the country would not join us; those of us who 
were not shot or cut down in the field would be afterward 
hanged, drawn, and quartered. Yet we drove the king from 
his throne. 

“ And the king came back again. So we go up and so we 
go down. But about this expedition and about these boys my 
mind misgives me. ^ ^ 

“ Son-in-law, Sir Christopher said, solemnly, “ I am now 
old, and the eyes of my mind are dim, so that I no longer 
discern the signs of the times, or follow the current of the 
stream; moreover, we hear but little news, so that I can not 
even see any of those signs. Yet to men in old age, before 
they pass away to the rest provided by the Lord, there cometh 
sometimes a vision by which they are enabled to see clearly 
when younger men are still groping their way in a kind of 
twilight. Monmouth hath landed; my boys are with him; 
they are rebels; should the rising fail, their lives are forfeited; 
and that of my dear friend. Doctor Comfort Eykin^s — yea, 
and my life as well belike, because I have been a consenting 
party. Kuin and death vvill in that event fall upon all of us. 
Whether it will so happen I know not, nor do I weigh the 
chance of that event against the voice of conscience, duty, and 
honor. My boys have obeyed that voice; they have gone forth 
to conquer or to die. My vision doth not tell me what will 
happen to them. But it shows me the priest fiying from the 
country, the king flying from the throne, and that fair angel 
whom we call Freedom of Conscience returning to bless the 
land. To know that the laws of God will triumph — ought not 
that to reconcile a man, already seventy-five years of age, to 
death, even a death upon the gallows? What matter for this 
earthly body so that it be spent until the end in the service of 
the Lord?^^ 


143 


I’OR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. 


CHAPTER XXL 

WE WAIT FOR THE EHD. ^ 

I HAVE said that my father from the beginning unto the 
end of this business was as one beside himself, being in an 
ecstasy or rapture of mind, insomuch that he heeded nothing. 
The letters he sent out to his friends, the Non-conformists, 
either brought no answer or else they heaped loads of trouble, 
being intercepted and read, upon those to whom they were ad- 
dressed. But he was not moved. The defection of his friends 
and of the gentry caused him no uneasiness. Nay, he even 
closed his eyes and ears to the drinking, the profane oaths, and 
the riotous living in the camp. Others there were, like-mind- 
ed with himself, who saw the hand of the Lord in this enter- 
prise, and thought that it would succeed by a miracle. The 
desertions of the men, which afterward followed, and the de- 
fection of those who should have joined — these things were but 
the weeding of the host, which should be still further weeded 
— as in a well-known chapter in the Book of J udges — until 
none but the righteous should be left behind. These things 
he preached daily, and with mighty fervor, to all who would 
listen; but these were few in number. 

As regards his wife and daughter, he took no thought for 
them at all, being wholly inwrapped in his work; he did not 
so much as ask if we had money — to be sure, for five-and- 
twenty years he had never asked that question — or if we were 
safely bestowed; or if we were well. Never have I seen any 
man so careless of all earthly affections when he considered the 
work of the Lord. But when the time came for the army to 
march, what were we to do? Where should we be bestowed? 

As to following the army,^^ said Robin, that is absurd. 
We know not whither we may march or what the course of 
events may order. You can not go home without an armed 
escort, for the country is up; the clubmen are out everywhere 
to protect their cattle and horses, a rough and rude folk they 
would be to meet; and the gypsies are robbing and plunder- 
ing. Can you stay here until we come back, or until the 
country hath settled down again?^^ 

Miss Blake generously promised that we should stay with 
her as long as we chose, adding many kind things about my- 
self, out of friendship and a good heart; and so it was resolved 
that we should remain in Taunton, where no harm could be- 


FOR FAITH AKD FREEDOM. 143 

fall US, while my father still accompanied the army to exhort 
the soldiers. 

I will take care of him/^ said Barnaby. ^^He shall not 
preach of a morning till he hath taken breakfast, nor shall he go 
to bed until he hath had his supper. So long as the provisions 
last out he shall have his ration. After that I can not say. May 
be we shall all go on short commons, as hath happened to me 
already; and, truth to tell, I love it not. All these things 
belong to the voyage, and are part of our luck. Farewell, 
therefore, mother. Heart up! — all will go well! Kiss me, sis- 
ter; we shall all come back again. Never fear. King Mon- 
mouth shall be crowned in Westminster. Dad shall be Arch- 
bishop of Canterbury, and I shall be captain of a king^s ship. 
All our fortunes shall be made, and you, sister, shall have a 
great estate, and shall marry whom you please — Eobin or 
another. As for the gentry who have not come forward, hang 
^em, we^ll divide their estates between us, and so change 
places, and they will be so astonished at not being shot for 
cowardice that they will rejoice and be glad to clean our boots. 
Thus shall we all be happy. 

So they marched away, Monmouth being now at the head of 
an army seven thousand strong, and all in such spirits that you 
would have thought nothing could withstand them. And when 
I consider, and remember how that army marched back, with 
the cheers of the men and the laughter and jokes of the young 
recruits, the tears ran down my cheeks for thinking how their 
joy was turned to mourning, and life was exchanged for death. 
The last I saw of Eobin was that he was turning in his saddle 
to wave his hand, his face full of confidence' and joy. The 
only gloomy face in the whole army that morning was the face 
of Humphrey. Afterward I learned that almost from the be- 
ginning he foresaw certain disaster. In the first place, none 
of those on whom the exiles of Holland had relied came into 
camp. These were the backbone of the Protestant party — the 
sturdy blood that had been freely shed against Charles I. This 
was a bitter disappointment. Next, he saw in the army noth- 
ing but a rabble of country lads, with such officers as Captain 
Hucker, the serge-maker, instead of the country gentlemen 
with their troops, as had been expected; and from the begin- 
ning he distrusted the leaders — even the duke himself. So he 
hung his head and laughed not with the rest. But his doubts 
he kept locked up in his own heart. Eobin knew none of 
them. 

It was a pretty sight to see the Taunton women walking out 
for a mile or more with their lovers, who had joined Mon- 


144 


FOB FAITH AKD FBEEDOM. 


mouth. They walked hand in hand with the men: they wore 
the Monmouth favors: they had no more doubt or fear of the 
event than their sweethearts. Those who visit Taunton now 
may see these women creeping about the streets, lonely and 
sorrowful, mindful still of that Sunday morning when they 
saw their lovers for the last time. 

When I consider the history of this expedition I am amazed 
that it did not succeed. It was, surely, by a special judgment 
of God that the victory was withheld from Monmouth and re- 
served for William. I say not (presumptuously) that the 
judgment was pronounced against the duke on account of his 
sinful life, but I think it was the will of Heaven that the coun- 
try should endure for three years the presence of a prince who 
was continually seeking to advance the Catholic religion. The 
people were not yet ripe, perhaps, for that universal disgust 
which caused them without bloodshed (in this island at least) 
to pull down King James from his throne. When, I say, I 
consider the temper and the courage of that great army which 
left Taunton, greater than any which the king could bring 
against it; when I consider the multitudes who flocked to the 
standard at Bridgewater, I am lost in wonder at the event. 

From Sunday, the 21st, when the army marched out of 
Taunton, till the news came of their rout on Sedgemoor, we 
heard nothing certain about them. On Tuesday the Duke of 
Albemarle, hearing that the army had gone, occupied Taunton 
with the militia, and there were some who expected severities 
on account of the welcome given to the duke and the recruits 
whom he obtained liere. But there were no acts of revenge 
that I heard of* — and, indeed, he did not stay long in the town. 
As for us, we remained under the shelter of Miss Blake ^s roof, 
and daily expected news of some great and signal victory. But 
none came, save one letter. Every day we looked for this 
news, and every day we planned and laid down the victorious 
march for our army. 

They will first occupy Bristol,^^ said Miss Blake. That 
is certain, because there are many stout Protestants in Bristol, 
and the place is important. Once master of that great city, 
our king will get possession of ships, and so will have a fleet. 
There are, no doubt, plenty of arms in the town, with which 
he will be able to equip an army ten times greater than that 
which he now has. Then with, say, thirty thousand men, he 
will march on London. The militia will, of course, lay dov/n 
their arms or desert at the ajiproach of this great and resolute 
army. The king^s regiments will prove, I expect, to be Pro- 
testants, every man. Oxford will open her gates, London will 


FOE FAITH AHD FEEEDOM. 


145 


send out her train-bands to welcome the deliyerer, and so our 
king will enter in triumph and be crowned in Westminster 
Ab&y, one King James succeeding another. Then there shall 
be restored to this distracted country — being a school-mis- 
tress Miss Blake could use language worthy of the dignity of 
history — the blessings of religious freedom; and the pure 
Word of God, stripped of superstitious additions made by 
man, shall be preached through the length and breadth of the 
land.^^ 

What shall be done,^^ I asked, with the bishops?^^ 

They shall be suffered to remain, she said, speaking with 
a voice of authority, ‘"for those congregations which desire a 
prelacy, but stripped of their titles and of their vast revenues. 
We will not persecute, but we will never suffer one Church to 
lord it over another. Oh! when will the news come? Where 
is the army now?^^ 

The letter of which I have spoken was from Eobin. 

Sweetheart,''^ he said, all goes well so far. At Bridge- 
water we have received a welcome only second to that of Taun- 
ton. The mayor and aldermen proclaimed our king at the 
High Cross, and the people have sent to the camp great store 
of provisions and arms of all kinds. We are now six regi- 
ments of foot with a thousand cavalry, besides the king^s own 
body-guard. We have many good friends at Bridgewater, es- 
pecially one, Mr. Eoger Hoar, who is a rich merchant of the 
place, and is very zealous in the cause. Your father preached 
on Sunday evening from the text, Deuteronomy, vii. 5 : ^ Ye 
shall destroy their altars, and break down their images, and 
cut down their groves, and burn their graven images with fire." 
It was a most moving discourse, which fired the hearts of all 
who heard it. 

They say that our chief is down-hearted because the nobil- 
ity and gentry have not come in. They only wait for the first 
victory, after which they will come in by hundreds. But some 
of our men look forward to depriving them of their estates and 
dividing them among themselves; and already the colonels and 
majors are beginning to reckon up the great rewards which 
await them. As for me, there is but one reward for which I 
pray, namely, to return unto Bradford Orcas and to the arms 
of my sweet saint. Lord Churchill is reported to be at Chard; 
there has been a brush in the Forest of Keroche between the 
scouts, and it is said that all the roads are guarded so that re- 
cruits shall be arrested, or at least driven back. Perhaps this 
is the reason why the gentry sit down. Barnaby says, that so 
far there have been provisions enough and to spare; and he 


FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. 


146 

hopes the present plenty may continue. No snipes crew can ! 
fight, he says, on half rations. Our march will be on Bristol. ; 
I hope and believe that when we have gotten that great town | 
our end is sure. Humphrey continueth glum. ^ 

Many women there were who passed that time in prayer, j 
continually offering up supplications on behalf of husband, ] 
brother, lover, or son. But at Taunton the rector, one Walter i 
Harte, a zealous High Churchman, came forth from hiding, 3 
and, with the magistrates, said prayers daily for King James H. 1 
To tell what follows is to renew a time of agony unspeak- ^ 
able. Yet must it be told. Farewell, happy days of hope and ^ 
confidence! Farewell, the sweet exchange of dreams! Fare- ' 
well to our lovely hero, the gracious duke! All the troubles ^ 
that man^s mind can conceive were permitted to be rained J 
upon our heads — defeat, wounds, death, prisons — nay, for me ^ 
such a thing as no one could have expected or even feared — 
such a fate as never entered the mind of man to invent. j 

When the duke marched out of Bridgewater, across Sedge- ' 
moor to Glastonbury, the weather, which had been hot and ' 
fine, became cold and rainy, which made the men un comfort- ^ 
able. At Glastonbury they camped in the ruins of the old , 
abbey. Thence they went to Shepton Mallet, the spirits of the i 
men still being high. From Shepton Mallet they marched to 
a place called Pensford, only five miles from Bristol. Here ^ 
they heard that the bridge over the Avon at Keynsham was 1 
broken down. This being presently repaired, the army « 
marched across. They were then within easy reach of Bristol, i 
And now began the disasters of the enterprise. Up to this 
time everything had prospered. Had the duke boldly attacked \ 
Bristol — I speak not of my own wisdom, having none in such j 
matters — he would have encountered no more than twenty j 
companies or thereabouts of militia, and a regiment of two ' 
hundred and fifty horse. Moreover, Bristol was full of Bis- 1 
senters, who wanted nothing but encouragement to join the | 
Protestant champion. Not only the duke^s friends, but also i 
his enemies, agree in declaring that it wanted nothing but 5 
courage to take that great, rich, and populous city, where he | 
would have found everything that he wanted — men and money, ^ 
arms and ammunition. I can not but think that for his sins, 
or for the sins of the nation, a judicial blindness was caused to 
fall upon the duke, so that he chose, of two ways open to him, 
that which led to his destruction. In short, he turned away 
from Bristol, and drew up his forces against Bath. When he 
summoned that city to surrender, they shot his herald, and 
scoffed at him. Then, instead of taking the town, the duke 


FOE FAITH AKB FEEEBOM. 


147 


retired to Philipps Norton, where, ^tis said, he expected some 
great re-enforcements. But none came; and he now grew 
greatly dejected, showing his dejection in his face, wdiich could 
conceal nothing. Yet had he fought an action with his half- 
brother, the Duke of Grafton, in which he was victorious, a 
thing which ought to have helped him. In this action Lieu- 
tenant Blake, Miss Blake^s cousin, was killed. Prom Philipps 
Norton the army marched to Prome, and here such was the 
general despondency that two thousand men — a third of the 
whole army — deserted in the night and returned to their own 
homes. I think, also, it was at Prome that they learned the 
news of Lord ArgylPs discomfiture. 

Then a council was held, at which it was proposed that the 
army should be disbanded and ordered to return, seeing that 
the king had proclaimed a pardon to all who would peacefully 
lay . down their arms and return home; and that the duke, with 
Lord Grey, and those who would be certainly exempted from 
that pardon, should make the best of their way out of the 
country. 

Alas! here was a way open to the safety of all those poor 
men; but again was the duke permitted to choose the other 
way — that, namely, which led to the destruction of his army 
and himself. Yet they say that he himself recommended the 
safer course. He must have known that he wanted arms and 
ammunition; that his men were deserting, and that no more 
recruits came in. Colonel Venner, one of the principal men, 
was at this juncture sent away to Holland in order to get as- 
sistance in arms and money. And the king’s proclamation of 
pardon was carefully kept from the knowledge of the soldiers. 

On July the 4th the army returned to Bridgewater, and now 
Dr. Hooke, chaplain to the army, and some of the officers 
were sent away secretly in order to raise an insurrection in 
London and elsewhere; the only hope being that risings in 
various parts would call away some of the king’s forces from 
the west. Some of the Taunton men in the army rode from 
Bridgewater to see their friends. But we women (who, for 
the most part remained at home) learned no news save that as 
yet there had been no signal victory: we did not hear of the 
large desertions nor of the duke’s despondency. Therefore 
we continued in our fools’ paradise, and looked every day for 
some great and crowning mercy. Those who are on the side 
of the Lord are always expecting some special interference; 
whereas they ought to be satisfied with being on the right side, 
whether victory or defeat be intended for them. In this enter- 
prise I doubt not that those godly men (there were, indeed. 


148 


FOK FAITH AKB FREEDOM. 


some godly men) who fell in battle, or were afterward execuh 
ed, received their reward, and that a far, far greater reward 
than their conduct deserved — for who can measure the short ; 

agony of death beside the everlasting life of glory unspeak- j 

abley ; 

The last day of this fatal expedition was Sunday, the fifth 
day of July: so that it took no more than three weeks in all 
between its first beginning and its failure. Only three weeks! 

But how much longer was it before the punishment and the 
expiation were concluded? Nay, are they even yet concluded 
when thousands of innocent women and children still go in 
poverty and mourning for the loss of those who should have 
worked for them? 

In the morning my father preached to the soldiers on the 
text (Joshua, xxii. 22), The Lord God of gods, the Lord God 
of gods. He knoweth, and Israel He shall know; if it be^in re- 
bellion, or if in transgression against the Lord, save us not 
this day.'’^ 

And now the time was come when the last battle was to be 
fought. 

The Earl of Feversham, who had been at Somerton, marched 
this day across Sedgemoor, and encamped at Weston Zoyland, 
which is but five or six miles from Bridgewater. 

Now it chanced that one William Sparke, of Chedzoy, hear- 
ing of this advance, climbed the church tower, and by aid of a 
spying-glass, such as sailors use at sea, he discerned clearly the 
approach of the army and its halt at Weston. Being a well- 
wisher to the duke, he sent one of his men, Kichard Godfrey 
by name, with orders to spy into and learn the position and 
numbers of the earFs army, and to carry his information 
straightway to Bridgewater. This duty the fellow promised, 
and most faithfully performed. 

The duke had already learned the approach of Lord Fever- 
sham, and being now .well-nigh desperate with his continued 
losses, and seeing his army gradually wasting away, with no 
fresh recruits, he had resolved upon not waiting to be attacked, 
but on a retreat nprthward, hoping to get across the bridge at 
Keynsham, and so march into {Shropshire and Cheshire, where 
still he hoped to raise another army. But (says he who hath j 
helped me with this brief account of the expedition) the re- 
treat, which would have been harassed by Lord Feversham^s 
horse, would have turned into flight; the men would have de^ 
serted in all directions; and when the remains of the army ar- ^ 
rived at Keynsham Bridge they would certainly have found it \ 
occupied by the Duke of Beaufort. j 


rOK FAITH AHD FKEEDOjM. 


149 


The carriages were already loaded in readiness for this march 
(it was to begin at nightfall), when the arrival of the man 
Godfrey, and the news that he brought, caused the duke to 
change everything. For he now perceived that such a chance 
was oJffered him as had never before occurred since his landing, 
viz. , a night surprise, and if he were fortunate, the rout of the 
king^s best troops. 

It is said that had the duke shown the same boldness in the 
matter of Bristol that he showed in this night attack he would 
have gained that city first and his own cause next. Nor did 
it appear at all a desperate attempt. For though Lord Fever- 
sham had 2500 men with him, horse and foot, with sixteen 
field-pieces, the duke had nearly 3000 foot and 600 horse, with 
four field-pieces, and though the king’s troops included many 
companies of grenadiers, with a battalion of that famous regi- 
ment the Coldstream Guards, and some 100 horse of the king’s 
regiment and dragoons, the duke had with him at least 2000 
men well armed, and resolute, as the event showed. Besides 
this, he had the advantage of the surprise and confusion of a 
night attack. And, in addition, the camp was not entrenched, 
the troopers had all gone to bed, the foot-soldiers were drink- 
ing cider, and the officers were reported to be all drunk. 

Therefore it was resolved that the intended flight into 
Shropshire should be abandoned, and that the whole matter 
should be brought to an issue that very night. 

Had the attack succeeded, all might yet have gone well with 
the duke. His enemies boasted that his raw country lads would 
be routed at the first charge of regular soldiers; if he proved the 
contrary, those who had deserted him would have returned, 
those who held aloof would join. It was not the cause which 
found men lukewarm; it was the doubt — and nothing but the 
doubt — whether the duke’s enterprise would be supported. 
And I have never heard that any found aught but commenda- 
tion of the boldness and spirit which brought us the battle of 
Sedgemoor. 

All that day we spent in quiet meditation, in prayer, in the 
reading of the Bible, and in godly discourses, and herein I must 
commend the modesty as well as the piety of Miss Susan Blake, 
in that she invited my mother as her elder and the wife of an 
eminent minister to conduct the religious exercises, though as 
the hostess she might have demanded that privilege. We 
stirred not abroad at all. The meeting-houses which had been 
opened when the duke marched in were now closed again. 

In the evening, while we sat together discoursing upon the 
special mercies vouchsafed to the people of the Lord, a strange 


150 


FOR FAITH AXD FREEDOM. 


thing happened. Kay, I do not say that news may not have 
reached Taunton already of the duke^s intentions, and of the 
position of the king^s forces. But this seems incredible, since 
it was not known — except to the council by whom it was de- 
cided — till late in the afternoon, and it was not to be thought 
that these would hurry to spread the news abroad, and so ruin 
the whole affair. The window being open then, we could hear 
the voices of those who talked in the street below. Xow there 
passed two men, and they were talking as they went. Said 
one — and these were the words we heard: 

I tell thee that the duke will have no more to do than to 
lock the stable doors, and so seize the troopers in their beds.*^^ 

We all started and listened. The voice below repeated: 

I say, sir, and I have it first hand, that he hath but to 
lock the stable doors, and so seize all the troopers in their 
beds. 

Then they passed on their way. 

Said my mother: My husband hath told me that not only 
may the conscience be awakened -by a word which seemeth 
chance, but the future may be revealed by words which were 
perhaps meant in another sense. M'hat we have heard this 
evening may be a foretelling of victory. My children, let us 
pray, and so to bed."^^ 


CHAPTER XXII. i 

I 

THE DAY AFTER. i 

It was five o’clock when I awoke next morning. Though 1 

the hour was so early, I heard a great tramping and running j 

about the streets, and, looking out of window, I saw a con- ] 

course of the towns-people gathered together, listening to one 1 

who spoke to them. But in the middle of his speech they ^ 

broke away from him and ran to another speaker, and so dis- ^ 

tractedly, and with such gestures, that they were clearly much \ 

moved by some news the nature of which I coidd not guess. 

For in some faces there was visible the outward show of tri- J 
umph and joy, and on others there lay plainly visible the look ’ 
of amazement or stupefaction; and in the street I saw some 
women weeping and crying. AVhat had happened? Oh! 
what had happened? Then, while I was still dressing, there j 
burst into the room Susan Blake, herself but half dressed, her ^ 
hair flying all abroad, the comb in her hand. j 

‘^Rejoice!” she cried. Oh! rejoice and give thanks unto 
the Lord! What did we hear last night? That the duke had J 


FOK FAITH AXD FREEDOM.* 


151 


but to shut the stable doors and seize the troopers in their beds. 
Look out of the window. See the people running and listen- 
ing eagerly. Oh I ^tis the crowning mercy that we have looked 
for: the I^rd hath blown and His enemies are scattered. Ee- 
member the strange words we heard last night. What said the 
unknown man? — nay, he said it twice: ‘ The duke had but to 
lock the stable doors, ^ ^ay, and yesterday I saw, and the 
last night 1 heard, the screech-owl thrice — ^which was meant 
for the ruin of our enemies. Oh! Grjace, Grace, this is a joy- 
ful dayl'^ 

But look,'"" I said, they nave a downcast look; they run 
about as if distracted, and some are wringing their hands — 

'Tis with excess of joy,^^ she replied, looking out of the 
window with me, though her hair was flying in the wind. 

They are so surprised and so rejoiced that they can not speak 
or move. ^ ' 

But there are women weeping and wailing: why do they 
weep?^^ 

It is for those who are killed. Xeeds must in every great 
victory that some are killed — ^poor brave fellows! — and some 
are wounded. Xay, my dear, thou hast three at least at the 
camp who are dear to thee, and God knows I have many. Let 
us pray that we do not have to weep like these poor women.'''' 

She was so earnest in her looks and words, and I myself so 
willing to believe, that I doubted no longer. 

Listen I oh, listen she cried; “ never, never before have 
bells rung a music so joyful to my heart ” 

For now the bells of the great tower of St Mary^s began to 
ring. Clash, clash, clash, Si together, as if they were crack- 
ing their throats with joy, and at the sound of the bells those 
men in the street who seemed to me stupefied as by a heavy 
lilow, put up their hands to their ears and fled as if they could 
not bear the noise, and the women, who wept, wrung their 
hands, and shrieked aloud in anguish, as if the joy of the 
chimes mocked the sorrow of their hearts. 

Poor creatures!"^ said Sasan. From my heart I pity 
them. But the victory is ours, and now it only remains to 
ofler up our humble prayers and praises to the Throne of all 
mercy. 

So we knelt and thanked God. 

^•'0 Lord! we thank and bless Thee! 0 Lord! we thank 
and bless Theel^^ cried Susan, the tears of joy and gratitude 
running down her cheeks. 

Outside, the noise of hurrying feet and voices increased, and 


152 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


more women shrieked, and still the joy-bells clashed and 
clanged. 

^^0 Lord! we thank Thee! 0 Lord! we bless Thee !^^ 
Susan repeated, on her knees, her voice broken with 'her joy 
and triumph. '’Twas all that she could say. 

1 declare that at that moment I had no more doubt of the 
victory than I had of the sunshine. There could be no doubt. 
The joy-bells were ringing; how should we know that the 
Eeverend Mr. Harte, the vicar, caused them to be rung and 
not our friends? There could be no manner of doubt. The 
people running to and fro in the street had heard the news, 
and were rushing to tell each other and to hear more — the 
women who wept were mothers or wives of the slain. Again, 
we had encouraged each other with assurances of our success, 
so that we were already fully prepared to believe that it had 
come. Had we not seen a splendid army, some thousand 
strong, march out of Taunton town, led by the bravest man 
and most accomplished soldier in the English nation? Was 
not the army on the Lord^s side? Were we not in a Protestant 
country? Were not the very regiments of the king Prot- 
estants? Why go on? And yet — oh! sad to think! — while 
we knelt and prayed the army was scattered like a cloud of 
summer gnats by a shower and a breeze, and hundreds lay 
dead upon the field, and a thousand men were prisoners, and 
many were already hanging in gemmances upon the gibbets, 
where they remained till King William^s coming suffered 
them to be taken down; and the rest were flying in every 
direction hoping to escape. 

0 Lord! we thank Thee! 0 Lord! we bless Thee!^^ 
While thus we prayed we heard the door below burst open, 
and a tramping of a man^s boots; and Susan, hastily rolling 
up her hair, ran down-stairs followed by mother and myself. , 
There stood Barnaby. Thank God! one of our lads was 
safe out of the fight. His face and hands were black with 
powder; his red coat, which had been so fine, was now smirched 
with mud and stained with I know not what — marks of weather, 
of mud and of gunpowder; the right-hand side was torn away; 
he had no hat upon his head, and a bloody clout was tied about 
his forehead. 

Barnaby !^^ I cried. 

Captain Barnaby!^^ cried Susan, clasping her hands. 

‘‘My sonP^ cried mother. “Oh! thou art wounded! 
Quick, Grace, child — a basin of water, quick!'’’ 

“ Kay, ’tis but a scratch/’ he said, and there is.no time 
for nursing. ” 


POE FAITH AKD PEEED03I. 


153 


When, where, how,^^ we all cried together, was the vic- 
tory won? Is the enemy cut to pieces? Is the war finished ?^^ 

Victory?^ ^ he repeated, in his slow way — what victory? 
Give me a drink of cider, and if there is a morsel of victual in 
the house — 

I hurried to bring him both cold meat and bread and a cup- 
ful of cider. He began to eat and drink. 

Why,^^he said, talking between his mouthfuls, ^^if the 
worst comes, it is better to face it with a — Your health, 
madame;^'’ he finished the cider. Another cup, sister, if 
you love me; I have neither eaten nor drunk since yesterday 
at seven o^clock or thereabout. He said no more until he 
had cleared the dish of the gammon and left nothing but the 
bone. This he dropped into his pocket. ‘^When the pro- 
visions are out,^^ he said, wisely, there is good gnawing in the 
shank-bone of a ham. Then he drank up the rest of the 
cider and looked around. Victory! Did some one speak of 
victory?^ ^ 

Yes; where was it? Tell us quick. 

Well, there was in some sort a victory. But the king had 
it.^^ 

‘"What mean you, Barnaby? The king had it? What 
king?^^ 

“Not King Monmouth. That king is riding away to find 
some port and get some ship, I take it, which will carry him 
back to Holland.’^ 

“ Barnaby, what is it? Oh, what is it? Tell us all.'’^ 

“ All there is to tell, sister, is that our army is clean cut to 
pieces, and that those of us who are not killed or prisoners are 
making oft* with what speed they may. As for me, I should 
have thrown away my coat and picked up some old duds and 
got off to Bristol, and so aboard ship and away, but for dad.^^ 

“ Oh, Barnaby, cried my mother, “ what hath happened 
to him? Where is he?^^ 

“ I said, mother, he replied, very slowly, and looking in 
her face strangely, “ that I would look after him, didriT I? 
Well, when we marched out of Bridgewater at nightfall noth^ 
ing would serve but he must go too. I think he compared 
himself with Moses, who stood afar off and held up his arms. 
Never was there any man more eager to get at the enemy than 
dad. If he had not been a minister now, what a soldier he 
would have made!^^ 

“ Go on — quick, Barnaby. 

“ I can go, sister, no quicker than I can. That is quite 


154 


POR PAITH AKD FREEDOM. 


Where is he, my son?^^ asked my mother. 

Barnaby jerked his thumb over his left shoulder. 

‘‘ He is over there, and he is safe enough for the present. 
Well, after the battle was over, and it was no use going on any 
longer, Monmouth and Lord Grey having already run away — 
Eun away.^ Eun away?^^ 

‘‘ Eun away, sister. Aboard ship the captain stands by the 
crew to the last, and if they strike, he is prisoner with them. 
Ashore, the general runs away and leaves his men to find out 
when they will give over fighting. We fought until there waSi 
no more ammunition, and then we ran with the rest. Now I 
had not gone far before I saw lying on the moor at my very 
feet the poor old dad.^^ 

He was quite pale, and I thought he was dead. So I was 
about to leave him, when he opened his eyes. ‘ What cheer, 
dad?^ I asked. He said nothing; so I felt his pulse and found 
him breathing. ^ But what cheer, dad?^ I asked him again. 

‘ Get up if thou canst, and come with me. ^ He looked as if 
he understood me not, and he shut his eyes again. Now when 
you run away, the best thing is to run as fast and to run as far 
as you can. Yet I could not run with dad lying in the road 
half dead. So while I tried to think what to do, because the 
murdering dragoons were cutting us down in all directions, 
there came galloping past a pony harnessed to a kind of go- 
cart, where, I suppose, there had been a barrel or two of cider 
for the soldiers. The creature was mad with the noise of the 
guns, and I had much ado to catch him, and hold the reins 
while I lifted dad into the cart. W^hen I had done that, 1 ran 
by the side of the horse and drove him ofi the road, across the 
moor, which was rough going, but for dear life one must en- 
dure much, to North Marton, where I struck the road to 
Taunton, and brought him safe, so-far.^^ 

Take me to him, Barnaby, said my mother — take me 
to him. 

Why, mother,^^ he said, kindly, I know not if Tis wise. 
For, look you, if they catch us, me they will hang or shoot, 
though dad they may let go, for he is sped already; and for a 
tender heart like thine Twould be a piteous sight to see thy 
son hanging from a branch with a tight rope round his neck 
and thy husband dead on a hand-cart. 

Barnaby, take me to him! — take me to him!’^ 

Oh! Is it true? Is it true? Oh! Captain Barnaby, is it 
really true? Then why are the bells a-ringing?^^ 

Clash! Clash! Clash! The bells rung out louder and 


FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. 


155 


louder. One would have thought the whole town was rejoic- 
ing. Yet there were a thousand lads marched out pf Taunton 
town, and I knew not how many ever came home again. 

They are ringing/^ said Barnaby, because King Mon- 
mouth^s army is scattered, and the rebellion is over. Well, 
we have had our chance, and we are dished. Now must we 
sing small again. Madame,^ ^ he said, earnestly, addressing 
Susan, if I remember right, they were your hands that car- 
ried the naked sword and t^lie Bible 

They were my hands. 

And they were your scholars who worked the flags and 
gave them to the duke that day when you walked in a proces- 
sion?^^ 

They were my scholars, she said, proudly. 

Then, madame, seeing that we have, if all reports be true, 
a damned unforgiving kind of king, my advice to you is to 
follow my example and run. Hoist all sail, madame, and fly to 
some port— any port. Fly false colors. When hanging, flog- 
ging, branding, and the like amusements set in, I think they 
will remember the maids of Taunton. That is my advice, 
madame. 

^^Sir,^^ said Susan, bravely, though her cheek grew pale 
when he spoke of floggings and brandings, thank you. 
Whither should I fly? Needs must I stay here and bear what- 
ever affliction the ‘Lord may lay upon me. And since our 
Protestant hero is defeated, methinks it matters little what be- 
comes of any of us. 

Why (Barnaby shook his head), King Monmouth is de- 
feated, that is most true; but we who survive have got our- 
selves to look after. Sister, get a basket and put into it pro- 
visions. 

What will you have, Barnaby ?^^ 

Everything that you can carry. Cold bacon for choice, 
and bread, and a bottle of brandy if you have any, and — all 
you can lay hands upon. With your good leave, madame.^'’ 

Oh, sir, take all — take all. I would to God that every^ 
thing I have in the world could be used for the succor of these 
my friends And with that she began to weep and cry. 

I filled a great basket with all that there was in the house, 
and he took it upon his arm. And then we came away with 
many tears and fond farewells from this kind soul who had 
done so much for the cause, and was now about to pay so heavy 
a penalty for her zeal. 

Outside in the street the people recognized him for one of 


156 


FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. 


Monmoiith^s captains, and pressed round him and asked him 
a thousand-questions, but he answered shortly. 

We were drubbed, I tell you. King Monmouth hath run 
away. We have all run away. How should I know how many 
are killed? Every man who doth not wish to be hanged had 
best run away and hide. The game is up — friend, we are sped. 
What more can I say? How d^o I know, in the deviTs name, 
whose fault it was? How can I tell, madame, if your son is 
safe? If he is safe, make him creep into a hiding-place — 
and so on to a hundred who crowded after him and questioned 
him as to the nature and meaning of the defeat. Seeing that 
no more news could be got from him, the people left oS fol- 
lowing us, and we got out of the town on the east side, where 
the road leads to Ilminster; but it is a bad road and little 
frequented. 

Here Barnaby looked about him carefully to make sure that 
no one was observing us, and then, finding that no one was 
within sight, he turned to the right, down a grassy lane be- 
tween hedges. 

^Tis this way that I brought him,^^ he said. Poor old 
man! he can now move neither hand nor foot; and his legs 
will no more be any use to him. Yet he seemed in no pain, 
though the jolting of the cart must have shaken him more 
than a bit. 

The lane led into a field, and that fieldinto another and a 
smaller one, with a plantation of larches on two sides and a 
brook shaded with alders on a third side. In one corner was a 
linney, with a thatched roof supported on wooden pillars in 
front and closed in at back and sides. It was such a meadow 
as is used for the pasture of cattle and the keeping of a bull. 

At the entrance of this meadow Barnaby stopped out and 
looked about him with approbation. 

^^Here,''" he said, slowly, is a hiding-place fit for King 
Monmouth himself. A road unfrequented; the rustics all gone 
off to the wars — though now, I doubt not, having had their 
bellyful of fighting. I suppose there were once cattle in the 
meadow, but they are either driven away by the club-men for 
Safety, or they have been stolen by the gypsies. Ko troopers 
will this day come prying along this road, or if they do search 
the wood, which is unlikely, they will not look in the linney; 
here can we be snug until we make up our minds what course 
is best. 

Barnaby, I said, take us to my father without more 
speech. ^ 

I have laid him/'’ he went on, upon the bare ground in 


FOE FAITH AKD FREEDOM. 


157 


the linney; but it is soffc and dry lying, and the air is warm, 
though ' last night it rained and was cold. He looks happy, 
mother, and I doubt if he hath any feeling left in his limbs. 
Once I saw a man shot in the backbone, and never move 
afterward; but he lived for a bifc. Here he is.""^ 

Alas! lying motionless on his back, his head bare, his white 
hair lying over his face, his eyes closed, his cheek white, and 
no sign of life in him except that his breast gently heaved, was 
my father. Then certain words which he had uttered came 
back to my memory. What matters the end,^^ he said, if 
I have freedom of speech for a single day?'’^ 

My mother threw herself on her knees beside him and raised 
his head. 

Ah! my heart, she cried, my dear heart, my husband, 
have they killed thee? Speak, my dear — speak, if thou canst! 
•Art thou in pain? Can we do aught to relieve thee? Oh, is 
this the end of all?^^ 

But my father made no reply. He opened his eyes, but they 
did not move; he looked straight before him, but he saw noth- 
ing. Then he murmured, in a low voice: Lord, now let 
Thy servant depart in peace. So let all Thine enemies perish, 
Lord.^^ 

And this, until the end, was the burden of all. He spoke 
no word to show that he knew any one, or that he was in pain, 
or that he desired anything. He neither ate nor drank, yet 
for many weeks longer he continued to live. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

Thus we began our miserable flight. Thus, in silence, we 
sat in the shade of the linney all the morning. Outside, the 
blackbird warbled in the wood and the lark sung in the sky. 
But we sat in silence, not daring so much as to ask each other 
if those things were real, or if we were dreaming a dreadful 
dream. Still and motionless lay my father^s body, as if the 
body of a dead man. He felt no pain — of that I am assured; 
it makes me sick even to think that he might have suffered 
pain from his wound; he had no sense at all of what was going 
on. Yet once or twice during the long trance or paralysis in 
which he had fallen he opened his lips and spoke after his old 
manner in the words of the Bible, but in a disjointed manner, 
as one who is in a dream or delirium. And he breathed gent- 
ly — so that he was not dead. Barnaby, for his part, threw 
himself upon his face, and laying his head upon his arm, fell 
asleep instantly. The place was very quiet; at the end of the 






158 FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM* 

meadow was a brook, and there was a wood upon the other 
side; we could hear the prattling of the water over the pebbles; 
outside the linney a great elm-tree stretched out its branches; 
presently I saw a squirrel sitting upon one and peering curi- 
ously at us, not at all afraid, so still and motionless we were. 

I remember that I envied the squirrel. He took no thought 
even for his daily bread. And the hedge-sparrows, no more 
afraid than if the linney was empty, hopped into the place and 
began picking about among the straw. And so the hours slow- 
ly passed away, and by degrees I began to understand a little 
better what had happened to us, for at the first shock one 
could not perceive the extent of the disaster, and we were as 
in a dream when we followed Barnaby out of the town. The 
great and splendid army was destroyed; that gallant hero, the 
duke, was in flight; those of the soldiers who were not killed 
or taken prisoners were running hither and thither trying to 
escape; my father was wounded, stricken to death, as it 
seemed, and deprived of power to move, to feel, or to think. 
While 1 considered this I suddenly remembered how he had 
turned his eyes from gazing into the sky, and asked me what 
it mattered even if the end would be death to him and ruin 
unto all of us. And I do firmly believe that at that moment 
he had an actual vision of the end, and really saw before his 
eyes the very things that were to come to pass, and that he 
knew all along what the end would be. Yet he had delivered 
his soul— why, then, he had obtained his prayer — and by daily 
exhortation had doubtless done much to keep up the spirit of 
those in the army who were sober and godly men. Did he 
also, like Sir Christopher, have another vision which should 
console and encourage him? Did he see the time to follow 
when a greater than the duke should come and bring with* him 
the deliverance of the country? There are certain gracious 
words with which that vision closes which he loved to read and 
to expound — the vision, I mean, of the Basket of Summer 
Fruit. Did those words ring in his mind and comfort him 
even in the prospect of his own end? Then my thoughts, 
which were swift and yet beyond my control, left him and 
considered the case of Barnaby. He had been a captain in the 
Green Kegiment; he would be hanged, for certain, if he were 
caught. My sweetheart, my Kobin, had also been a captain 
in the duke^s army. All the duke^s officers would be hanged j 
if they were* caught. But perhaps Eobin was already dead — i 
dead on the battle-field — his face white, his hands stiff, blood 
upon him somewhere, and a cruel wound uj)on his dear body! 
Oh, Eobin! Yet I shed no tears. Humphrey, who had been i 


FOR FAITH AKD FREEDOM. 


159 


one of the duke^s chirurgeons^ he would also be surely hanged 
if he were caught. Why — since all would be hanged — why 
not hang mother and me as well, and so an end? 

About noon Barnaby began to stir; then he grunted and 
went to sleep again: presently he moved once more; then he 
rolled over on his broad back and went to sleep again. It was 
not until the sun was quite low that he awoke, sitting up sud- 
denly, and looking about him with quick suspicion, as one who 
hath been sleeping in the country of an enemy, or where wild 
beasts are found. 

Then he sprung to his feet and shook himself like a dog. 
Sister,^^ he said, ' ^ thou shouldst have awakened me earlier. 
I have slept all the day. Well; we are safe, so far. Here 
he looked cautiously out of the linney toward the wood and the 
road. So far, I say, we are safe. I take it we had best not 
wait until to-morrow, but budge to-night; for not only will the 
troopers scour the country, but they will olfer rewards, and the 
gypsies — ay, and even the country folk — will hasten to give in- 
formation out of their greedy hearts. We must budge this 
very night. 

W^hither shall we go, Barnaby 

He went on as if he had not heard my question. 

We shall certainly be safe here for to-night; but for to- 
morrow I doubt. Best not run the chance; for to-day their 
hands are full; they will be hanging the prisoners. Some they 
will hang first and try afterward; some they will try first and 
hang afterward. What odds, if they are to be hanged in the 
end? The cider orchards never had such fruit as they will 
show this autumn, if the king prove revengeful — as, to judge 
by his sour face, he will be."'^ 

Here he cursed the king, his sour face, his works and ways, 
his past, his present, and his future^ in round language which 
I hope his wounded father did not hear. 

We must lie snug for a month or two somewhere, until 
the unlucky Monmouth men will be suffered to* return home 
in peace. Ay! Twill be a month and more, I take it, before 
the country will be left quiet. A month and more — and dad 
not able to crawl!^^ 

Where shall we be snug, Barnaby?^^ 

That, sister, is what I am trying to find out. How to lie 
snug with a couple of women and a wounded man who can not 
move? ^Twas madness of the poor old dad to bring thee to 
the camp, child. For now we can not — any of us — part com- 
pany, and if we stay together. Twill maybe bring our necks to 
the halter. 


160 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


Leave us, Barnaby/^ I said — oh, leave us to do what we 
can for the poor sufferer, and save thyself. 

Ta, ta, ta, sister — knowest not what thou sayest. Let me 
consider. There may be some way of safety. As for pro- 
visions now: we have the basket full — enough for two days, 
say. What the plague did dad, the poor old man, want with 
women when the fighting was on hand? When the fighting is 
done, I grant you, women, with the tobacco and punch, are 
much in place. There are some pretty songs, now, that I 
have heard about women ai^d drink. 

‘^Barnaby, is this a time to be talking of such things as 
drink and singing 

All times are good. Nevertheless, all company is not 
fitting; wherefore, sister, I say no more/^ 

Barnaby, knowest thou aught of Eobin? Or of Hum- 
phrey?^^ 

‘‘ I know nothing. They may be dead ; they may be wound- 
ed and prisoners. Much I fear, knowing the spirit of the lads, 
that both are killed. Nay, I saw Humphrey before the fight, 
and he spoke to me — 

‘‘ What did Humphrey say?"'^ 

I asked why he hung his head and looked so glum, seeing 
that we were at last going forth to meet the king^s army. 
This I said because I knew Humphrey to be a lad of mettle, 
though his ari^m is thin and his body is crooked. ^ I go heavy, 
Barnaby,^ he said, speaking low lest others should hear, ^ be- 
cause I see plainly that, unless some signal success come to us, 
this our business will end badly. ^ Then he began to talk 
about the thousands who were to have been raised all over the 
country; how he himself had brought to the duke promises of 
support gathered all the way from London to Bradford Orcas, 
and how his friends in Holland even promised both men and 
arms; but none of these promises had been kept; how dad had 
brought promises of support from all the Non -conformists of 
the West, but hardly any, save at Taunton, had come forward; 
and how the army was melting away, and no more recruits 
coming in. And then he said that he had been the means of 
bringing so many to the duke that, if they died, their deaths 
would be upon his conscience. And he spoke lovingly of Eobin 
and of thee, sister. And so we parted, and I saw him no 
more. As for what he said about success, I minded it not a 
straw. Many a croaker turns out in the long run to be brave 
in the fight. Doubtless he is dead, and Eobin, too. Both are 
dead. I take it, sister, thou hast lost thy sweetheart. Cry a 


von FAITH AHD FREEDOM. 161 

little^ my dear/^ he added, kindly; ease the pain at 

thy heart. ^Tis natural for a woman to cry/^ 

can not cr^ Barnaby; I wish I could. The tears rise 
to my eyes, but my throat is dry.^^ 

Try a prayer or two, sister. ■’Twas wont to comfort the 
heart of my mother when she was in trouble. 

A prayer? ‘ Brother, I have done nothing but pray since 
this unfortunate rebellion began. A prayer? Oh, I can not 
pray! If I were to pray now it would be as if my words were 
echoed back from a wall of solid rock. We were praying all 
yesterday; we made the Sabbath into a day of prayer without 
ceasing; and the morning, when you opened the door, we were 
praising and thanking God for the mercy of the great victory 
bestowed upon us. And at that time the poor brave men — 

They were brave enough to the end,^^ said Barnaby. 

The poor brav? men lying cold and dead upon the field 
(among them may be Eobin), and the prisoners huddled to- 
gether somewhere, and men hanging already upon the gibbets. 
W e were praising God — and my father lying on the ground 
stricken to death, and thou a fugitive, -and all of us ruined! 
Prayer? How could I pray from such, a pit of woe?’^ 

Child, my mother lifted her pale face, in the darkest 
hour pray without ceasing. Even if there happen even a 
darker hour than this, ‘ in everything by prayer and supplica- 
tion with thanksgiving let your requests be made known ^ — with 
thanksgiving, my daughter. 

Alas! I could not obey the apostolic order. ^Twas too much 
for me. So we fell into silence. When the sun had quite 
gone down, Barnaby went forth cautiously. Presently he 
came back. 

There is no one on the road,^^ he said. We may now 
go on our way. The air of Taunton is dangerous to us. It 
breeds swift and fatal diseases, I have now resolved what to 
do. I will lift my father upon the cart again and put in the 
pony. Four or five miles sou^-west or thereabouts is Black 
Down, which is a No-Man^s Land. Thither will we go and 
hide in the coombs, where no one ever comes, except the 
gypsies. 

How shall we live, Barnaby?^ ^ 

That,^^ he said, we shall find out when we come to look 
about us. There is provision for two days. The nights are 
warm. We shall find cover, or make it with branches. There 
is water in the brooks and dry wood to burn. There we may, 
perhaps, be safe. When the country is quiet we will make our 
way across the hills to Bradford Orcas, where no one will 


162 


FOE FAITH AND FEE'EDOM. 


molest you, and I can go oiff to Bristol or Lyme, or wherever 
there are ships to be found. When sailors are shipwrecked, 
sister, they do not begin by asking what they shall do on dry 
land; they ask only to feel the stones beneath their feet. We 
must think of nothing now but of a place of safety.-’^ 

Barnaby, are the open hills a proper place for a wounded 
man?^^ 

Why, child, for a choice between the hills and what else 
may happen if we stay here, give me the hills, even for a 
wounded man. But indeed — he whispered, so that .my 
mother should not hear him — he will die. Death is written 
on his face. I know not how long he will live. But he must 
die. Never did any man recover from such evil plight. 

He harnessed the pony to the cart, which was little more 
than a couple of planks laid side by side, just as he had brought 
him from Taunton. My mother made m kind of pillow for 
him with grass tied up in her kerchief, and so we hoped that 
he would not feel the jogging of the cart. 

“ The stream/^ said Barnaby, comes down from the hills. 
Let us follow its course upward.-’^ 

It was a broad stream with a shallow bed, for the most part 
flat and pebbly; and on either side of the stream lay a strip of 
soft turf, broad enough for the cart to run upon. So that, as 
long as that lasted, we had very easy going; my mother and I 
walking one on each side, so as to steady the pillow and keep 
the poor head upon it from pain. But whether we went easy 
or whether we went rough, that head made no sign of feeling 
aught, and lay, just as in the linney, as if dead. Once it had 
spoken; now it was silent again. 

i can not tell how long we went , on beside that stream. 
•’Twas in a wild, uncultivated country; the ground ascended; 
the stream became narrower and swifter; presently the friend- 
ly strip of turf failed altogether, and then we had trouble to 
keep the cart from upsetting. I went to the pony^s head, 
and Barnaby, going behind the cart, lifted it over the rougli 
places, and sometimes carried his end of it. The night was 
chilly; my feet were wet with splashing in the brook, and I 
was growing faint with hunger, when Barnaby called a halt. 

We are now,^^ he said, at the head of the stream. In 
half an hour or thereabouts it will be break of day. Let us 
rest. Mother, jou must eat something. Come, sister, Tis 
late for supper, and full early for breakfast. Take some 
meat and bread and half a cup of cider. 

It is all I remember of that night. 


FOE FAITH AHI> FREEDOM. 


163 


OHAPTEE XXIV. 

THE CAMP IH THE COOMB. 

OuE camping-place when I awoke in the morning I found 
to be near the head of a most beautiful coomb or valley among 
the Black Down Hills. I knew it not at the time, but it was 
not far from that old Eoman castle which we had passed on 
our way to Taunton, called Castle Batch. The hills rose steep 
on either hand, their slopes hidden by trees. At our feet the 
brook took its rise in a green quagmire. The birds were sing- 
ing, and the sun was already high, and the air was warm, 
though there was a fresh breeze blowing. The warmth and 
sweetness filled my soul when I awoke, and I sat up with joy, 
until suddenly I remembered why we were here and who were 
here with me. Then my heart sunk like a lump of lead in 
water. I looked around. My father lay/ just as he had been 
lying all the day before, motionless, white of cheek, and as one 
dead, save for the slight motion of his chest and the twitching 
of his nostril. As I looked at .him in the clear morning light 
it was borne in upon me very strongly that he was indeed 
dead, inasmuch as his soul seemed to have fled. He saw 
nothing, he felt nothing. If the flies crawled over his eyelids 
he made no sign of disturbance; yet he breathed,, and from 
time to time he murmured, but as one that dreameth. Beside 
him lay my mother sleeping, worn out by the fatigues of the 
night. Barnaby had spread his coat to cover her, so that she 
should not take cold, and he had piled a little heap of dead 
leaves to make her a pillow. He was lying at her feet, head 
on arm, sleeping heavily. What should be done, I wondered, 
when next he woke? 

First I went down the coomb a little way till the stream was 
deep enough, and there I bathed my feet, which were swollen 
and bruised by the long walk up the coomb. Though it was in 
the midst of so much misery, there was a pleasure of dabbling 
my feet in the cool water, and afterward of walking about 
barefoot in the grass. I disturbed an adder which was sleep- 
ing on a flat stone in the sun, and it lifted its venomous head 
and hissed, but did not spring upon me. Then I washed my 
face and hands, and made my hair as smooth as without a 
comb it was possible. When I had done this I remembered 
that perhaps my father might be thirsty, or at least able to 
drink, though he seemed no more to feel hunger Or thirst. So 


164 


FOE FAITH AND FEEEDOM. 


I filled the tin pannikin — it was Barnaby^s — with water, and 
tried to pour a little into his mouth. He seemed to swallow 
it, and I gave him a little more, until he would swallow no 
more. Observe that he took no other nourishment than a 
little water, wine or milk, or a few drops of broth, until the 
end. So I covered his face with a handkerchief to keep ofi 
the fiies, and left him. Then I looked into the basket. All 
that there was in it would not be more than enough for 
Barnaby^s breakfast, unless his appetite should fail him by 
reason of fear, though in truth he had no fear of being cap- 
tured, or of anything else. There was in it a piece of bacon, 
a large loaf of bread, a lump of cheese, a bottle of cider; 
nothing more. When these provisions were gone, what next? 
Could we venture into the nearest village and buy food, or to 
the first farm-house? Then we might fall straight into the 
jaws of the enemy, who were probably running over the whole 
country in search of the fugitives. Could we buy witliout 
money? Could we beg without arousing suspicions? If the 
people were well inclined to the Protestant cause we might 
trust them. But how could we tell that? So in my mind I 
turned over everything except the one thing which might have 
proved our salvation, and that you shall hear directly. Also, 
which was a very strange thing, I quite forgot that I had upon 
me, tied by a string round my waist and well concealed, 
Barnaby’s bag of gold — two hundred and fifty pieces. Thus 
there wa^ money enough and to spare. I discovered next that 
our pony had run away in the night. The cart was there, but 
no pony to drag it. Well, it was not much, but it seemed an 
additional burden to bear. I ventured the little way up the 
valley, following a sbpep track which mounted higher and 
higher. I saw no sign anywhere of man^s presence; it is 
marked in woods by circles of burned cinders, by trees felled, 
by bundles of broom or fern tied up, or by shepherds^ huts. 
Here there was nothing at all; you would have said that the 
place had never been visited by man. Presently I came to a 
place where the woods ceased, the last of the trees being much 
stunted and blown over from the west, and then the top of 
the hill began, not a sharp inco or point, but a great open 
plain swelling out here and flat there, with many of the little 
hillocks which people say are ancient tombs. And no trees at 
all, but only bare turf, so that one could see a great way off. 
But there was no sign of man anywhere; no smoke in the 
coomb at my feet; no shepherd on the hill. At this juncture 
of our fortunes any stranger might be an enemy, therefore I 
returned, so far well pleased. 


FOR FAITH AIID FREEDOM. 


165 


Barnaby was now awake, and was inspecting the basket of 
provisions. 

Sister/^ he said, ^^we must go upon half rations for 
breakfast, but I hope, unless my skill fails, to bring you 
something far better for supper. The bread you shall have, 
and mother. The bacon may keep till to-morrow. The 
cider you had better keep against such times as you feel worn 
out and want a cordial, though a glass of Nantz were better, 
if ISfantz grew in the woods. He looked around as if to see 
whether a miracle would not provide him with a flask of 
strong drink, but seeing none, shook his head. 

As for me,"^^ he went on, t am a sailor, and I under- 
stand how to forage. Therefore, yesterday, foreseeing that 
the provisions might give out, I dropped the shank of the ham 
into my pocket. Now you shall see.''^-^ 

He produced this delicate morsel, and, sitting down, began 
to gnaw and to bite into the bone with his strong teeth, exactly 
like a dog. This he continued, with every sign of satisfaction, 
for a quarter of an hour or so, when he desisted, and replaced 
the bone in his pocket. 

/^We throw away the bones, he said; ‘^the dogs gnaw 
them and devour them. Think you that it is for their amuse- 
ment? Not so, but for the juices and the nourishment that 
are in and around the bone; for the marrow and for the meat 
that still will stick in odd corners. He went down to the 
stream with the pannikin, and drank a cup or two of water to 
finish what they call a horse^s meal, namely, the food first and 
the water afterward. 

And now,^^ he said, I have breakfasted. It is true that 
I am still hungry, but I have eaten enough to carry me on a 
while. Many a poor lad cast away on a desert shore would 
find the shank of a ham a meal fit for a king; ay, and a meal 
or two after that. I shall make a dinner presently ofi this 
bone, and I shall still keep it against a time when there may 
be no provision left. 

‘‘And now,^^ he said, looking around him, “let us con- 
sider. The troopers, I take it, are riding along the roads. 
Whether they will ride over these hills I know not, but I think 
they will not, because their horses can not well ride up these 
coombs. Certainly, if they do, it will not be by the way we 
came. We are here, therefore, hidden away snug. Why 
should we budge? Nowhere is there a more deserted part of 
the country than Black Down, on whose side we are. And I 
do not think, further, that we should find anywhere a safer 
place to hide ourselves in than this coomb, where, I dare say. 


166 


FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM, 


no one comes, unless it be the gypsies or the broom-squires, 
all the year round. And now they are all laden with the spoil 
of the army^ — ^for after a battle this gentry swoop down upon 
the field like the great birds which I have seen abroad upon 
the carcasses of drowned beasts, and plunder the dead. Next 
they must go into town in order to sell their booty, then they 
will be fain to drink about till all is spent, so they will leave 
us undisturbed. Therefore we will stay here, sister. First, I 
will go try the old tricks by which I did often in the old time 
improve the fare at home. Next I will devise some way of 
making a more comfortable resting-place. Thank the Lord 
for fine weather so far. 

He was gone a couple of hours. During that time my 
mother awoke. Her mind was broken by the suddenness of 
this trouble, and she cared no more to speak, sitting still by 
the side of her husband, and watching for any change in him. 
But I persuaded her to take a little bread and a cup of cider. 

When Barnaby came back he brought with him a blackbird, 
a thrush, and two wood-pigeons. He had not forgotten the 
tricks of his boyhood, when he would often bring home a 
rabbit, a hare, or a basket of trout. So that my chief terror, 
that we might be forced to abandon our hiding-place through 
sheer hunger, was removed. But Barnaby was full of all 
kinds of devices. 

He then set to work with his great knife, cutting down a 
quantity of green branches, which he laid out side by side, 
with their leaves on, and then bound them together, cleverly 
interlacing the smaller shoots and branches with each other, 
so that he made a long kind of hurdle ' about six feet high. 
This, which by reason of the leaves was almost impervious to 
the wind, he disposed round the trunks of three young trees 
growing near each other. Thus he made a small three- 
cornered inclosure. Again he cut other and thicker branches, 
and laid them over and across this hurdle, and cut turf, which 
he placed upon the branches, so that here was now a hut with 
a roof and walls complete. Said I not that Barnaby was full 
of devices? 

There, he said, when all was ready, ^Ms a house for you. 
It will have to rain hard and long before the water begins to 
drop through the branches which make the roof and the slabs 
of turf. Well, Tis a shelter. Not so comfortable as the old 
cottage, perhaps, but nearly as commodious. If it is not a 
palace it will serve us to keep off the sun by day and the dew 
by night. 

Next he gathered a great quantity of dry fern, dead leaves. 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


167 


and heather, and these he disposed within the hut, so that they 
made a thick and warm carpet or covering. Nay, at night 
they even formed a covering for the feet, and prevented one 
from feeling cold. When all was done he lifted my father 
gently, and laid him with great tenderness . upon this carpet 
within the rude shelter. 

This shall he a warmer night for thee than the last, dad,^^ 
he said. There shall be no jolting of thy poor bones. What, 
mother? We can live here till the cold weather comes. The 
wind will perhaps blow a bit through the leaves to-night, but 
not much, and to-morrow I will see to that. Be easy in your 
mind about the provisions. Alas! my poor mother was 
thinking of anything in the world except the provisions. 

There are rabbits and birds in plenty; we can catch them 
and eat them. Bread we must do without when what we have 
is gone, and as for strong drink and tobacco — he sighed 
heavily — they will come again when better times are served 
out.^^ 

In these labors I helped as much as I was able, and par- 
ticularly in twisting the branches together. And thus the 
whole day passed, not tediously, and without any alarms, the 
labor being cheered by the hopefulness of Barnaby^s honest 
face. No one, to look at that face, could believe that he was 
flying for his life, and would be hanged if he was caught. 
After sunset we lighted a fire, but a small one only, and well 
hidden by the woods, so that its light might not be seen from 
below. Then Barnaby dexterously plucked and trussed the 
birds and roasted them in the embers, so that had my heart 
been at rest I should have had a most delicious supper. And 
I confess that I did begin to pluck up a little courage, and to 
hope that we might yet escape, and that Eobin might be 
living. After supper my mother prayed, and I could join 
with more of resignation and something of faith. Alas! in 
times of trial how easily doth the Christian fall from faith. 
The day before prayer seemed to be a mockery; it was as if 
all prayer were addressed to a deaf God, or to One who will 
not hear, for our prayers had all been for safety and victory, 
and we were suddenly answered with disaster and defeat. 

After supper Barnaby sat beside the embers, and began to 
talk in a low voice. 

^Twill be a sorrowful barley-mow song thisyear,^^ he said; 

a dozen brave lads from Bradford alone will be dead, 

Not all dead, Barnaby. Oh, not all.^^ 

I know not. Some are prisoners, som^ are dead, some are 
running away/^ Then he began to sing in a low voice: 


168 


POR FAITH AKD FREEDOM. 

** ‘ Here’s a health to the barley-mow 

I remember, sister, when I would run a mile to hear that song, 
though my father flogged me for it in the morning. ^Tis the 
best song ever written. He went on singing in a kind of 
whisper: 

“ ‘ We’ll drink it out of the nipper kin, boys ’ — 

Eobin — poor Eobin! he is dead! — was a famous hand at sing- 
ing; but Humphrey found the words too rustical. Humphrey 
— who is now dead, too — was ever for flne words, like Mr. 
Boscorel. 

‘ We’ll drink it out of the jolly brown bowl.’ 

I think I see him now — poor Eobin! Well, he is no more. 
He used to laugh in all our faces while he sang it: 

“ * We’ll drink it out o’ the river, my boys. 

Here’s a health to the barley- mow! 

The river, the well, the pipe, the hogshead, the half- 
Hogshead, the anker, the half-anker, the gallon, the 
Pottle, the quart, the pint, the half- pint, the quarter- 
Pint, the nipperkin, the jolly brown bowl, my boys. 

Here’s a health to the barley-mow!’ ” 


He trolled out the song in a melodious whisper. Oh, Barnaby, 
how didst thou love good companionship with singing and 
drinking. 

^Twill be lonely for thee, sister, afc Bradford when thou 
dost return; Sir Christopher, I take it, will not long hold up 
his head, and madame will pine away for the loss of Eobin, 
and mother looks as if she would follow after, so white and 
wan is she. If she would speak, or complain, or cry it would 
comfort her, poor soul. ^Twas a sad day for her when she 
married the poor old dad. Poverty and hard work, and now 
a cruel end to her marriage — poor mother!^^ 

Barnaby, you tear my heart. 

Nay, child, ^tis better to talk than to keep silence. Better 
have your heart torn than be choked with your pain. Thou 
art like unto a man who hath a wounded leg, and if he doth 
not consent to have it cut off, though the anguish be sharp, 
he will presently bleed to death. Say to thyself, therefore, 
plain and clear, ^ Eobin is dead; I have lost my sweetheart.^ 
No, no, Barnaby; I can not say those cruel words. Oh, I 
can not say them. I can not feel that Eobin is truly dead.'’^ 
Put the case that he is living. Then he is either a prisoner 
or he is in hiding. If a prisoner he is as good as dead, because 
the duke^s officers and the gentlemen who Joined him they will 


FOR FAITH AKD FREEDOM. 


169 


never forgive — that is quite certain. If I were a prisoner I 
should feel my neck already tightened. If he is not a prisoner, 
where is he to hide? — whither betake himself? I can get sail- 
ors^ duds and go abroad before the mast, and ten to one no- 
body will find me out, because, d^ye see, I can talk the sailors^ 
language, and I know their manners and customs. But Eobin 
— what is Eobin to do if he is alive? And this, I say, is doubt- 
ful. Best say to thyself, ‘ I have lost my sweetheart. So wilt 
thou all the sooner recover thy cheerfulness. 

^^Barnaby, you know not what you say. Alas! if my Eobin 
is dead — if my boy is truly dead — then I ask for nothing more 
than swift death, speedy death, to join him and be with him!^^ 

If he escape he will make for Bradford Orcas and hide in 
the Gorton woods. That is quite certain. They always make 
for home. I would that we were in that friendly place, so' 
that you could go live in the cottage and bring provisions with 
tobacco to us, unsuspected and unseen. When we have rested 
here awhile we will push across the hills and try to get there 
by night, but it is a weary way to drag that wounded man. 
However — ^he broke off and said, earnestly — make up thy 
mind, child, to the worst. .■’Tis as if a shipwrecked man 
should hope that enough of the ship would float to carry him 
home withal. Make up thy mind. We are all ruined and 
lost — all — all — all. Thy father is dying; thy lover is dead; 
thou art thyself in great danger by reason of that affair at 
Taunton. Everything being gone, turn round therefore and 
make thyself as comfortable as possible. What will happen 
we know not. Therefore count every day of safety for gain, 
and every meal for a respite. 

He was silent for a wliile, leaving me to think over what he 
had said. Here, indeed, was a philosopher. Things being all 
lost, and our affairs in a desperate condition, we were^o turn 
round and make ourselves as comfortable as we could. This, 
I suppose, is what sailors are wont to do; certainly they are a 
folk more exposed to misfortune than others, and therefore, 
perhaps, more ready to make the best of whatever happens. 

Barnaby,^^ I said presently, how can I turn round and 
make myself comfortable?^^ 

The evening is still, he said, without replying. See! 
there is a bat, and there another. If it were not for the 
trouble in there — he pointed to the hut — I should be easy 
in my mind and contented. I could willingly live here a 
twelvemonth. Why, compared with the lot of the poor devils 
who must now be in prison, what is ours? They get the foul 
and stinking clink, with bad food, in the midst of wounded 


m 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


men whose hurts are putrifying, with jail fever, and with the 
whipping-post or the gallows to comfe" We breathe sweet air, 
we find sufficient food — to-morrow, if I know any of the signs, 
thou shalt taste a roasted hedgehog — dish fit for a king! I 
found at the bottom of the coomb a pot left by some gypsies; 
thou shalt have boiled sorrel and mushrooms to thy supper. 
If we stay here long enough there will be nuts and black- 
berries and whortleberries. Pity, a thousand pities, there is 
not a drop of drink. I dream of punch and hipsy. Think 
upon what remains, even if thou canst not bear to thiiik of 
what is lost. Hast ever seen a tall ship founder in the waves? 
They close over her as she sinks, and in an instant, it is as if 
that tall ship with all her crew had never been in existence at 
all. The army of Monmouth is scattered and ruinjed. Well, 
it is with us, amid these woods, just as if there had been no 
army. It has been a dream perhaps. Who can tell? Some- 
times all the past seems to have been a dream. It is all a 
dream — past and future. There is no past and there is no 
future; all is a dream. But the .present we have. Let us be 
content therewith. 

He spoke slowly and with measured accents, as one en- 
chanted. Sometimes Barnaby was buk a rough and rude 
sailor. At other times, as these, he betrayed signs of his early 
education, and spoke as one who thought. 

It is ten years and more since last I breathed the air of 
the hills. I knew not that I loved so much the woods and 
valleys and the streams. Some day, if I survive this adven- 
ture, I will build me a hut and live here alone in the woods. 
Why, if I were alone I should have an easy heart. If I were 
driven out of one place I could find another. I am in no 
hurry to get down among men and towns. Let us all stay 
here a^ be happy. But there is dad, ’^ho lives not, yet is not 
dead. Sister, be thankful for thy safety in the woods, and 
think not too much upon the dead. 

We lived in this manner, the weather being for the most 
part fine and warm, but with showers* now and then, for a 
fortnight or thereabouts, no one coming up the coomb, and 
there being still no sign of man^s presence in the hills. Our 
daily fare consisted of the wild birds snared by Barnaby, such 
creatures as rabbits, hedgehogs, and the like, which he caught 
by ingenious ways, and trout from the brook, which he caught 
with a twisted pin or by tickling them with his hand. There 
were also mushrooms and edible leaves, such as the nettle, wild 
sorrel, and the like, of which he knew. These we boiled and 
eat. He also plucked the half -ripe blackbqj;ries^ and boiled 



FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. ' ^ 171 

them to make a sour drink, and one which, like the cider 
loved by our people, would grip his throat, because he could 
not endure plain cold water. And he made out of the bones 
of the birds a kind of thin broth for my father, of which he 
daily swallowed a teaspoonful or so. So that t^^e fared well, if 
not sumptuously. The bread, to be sure, which Barnaby left 
for mother and me was coming, to the last crust, and I kijow 
not how we should have got more without venturing into the 
nearest village. 

Now as I talked every night with my brother I found out 
what a brave and simple soul it was, always cheerful and hope- 
ful, talking always as if we were the most fortunate people in 
the world, instead of the most miserable, and yet, by keeping 
the truth before me, preventing me from getting into another 
FooBs Paradise as to our safety and Eobin^s escape, such as 
that into which I had fallen after the army marched out of 
Taunton. I understand now that he was always thinking how 
to smooth and soften things for us, so that we might not go 
distracted with anxiety and grief; finding work for me, talk- 
ing about other things — in short, the most thoughtful and 
affectionate brother in all the world. As for my mother, he 
could do nothing to move her. She still sat beside her 
wounded husband, watching all day long for any sign of con- 
sciousness or change. 

Seeing that Barnaby was so good and gentle a creature, I 
could not understand how it was that in tbe old days he used 
to get a hogging most day^ for some offense or other, so that 
I had grown up to believe him a very wicked boy indeed. I 
put this question to him one night. 

He put it aside for a while, replying in his own fashion, 
remember dad,*’^ her said, ‘^before thou canst, sister. 
He was always thin and tall, and he always stooped as he 
walked. But his hair, which now is white, was brown, and 
fell in curls which he could not straighten. He was always 
mighty grave; no one, I am sure, ever saw him laugh; I have 
never seen him so much as smile, except sometimes when he 
dandled thee upon his kwe, and thou wouldst amuse him with 
innocent prattle. All his life he hath spent in finding out the 
way to Heaven. He did find the way — I suppose he hath truly 
discovered it — and a mighty thorny and difficult way it is, so 
that I know not how any can succeed in reaching port by such 
navigation. The devil of it is that he believes there is no 
other way, and he seemed never so happy as when he had 
found anothiy trap or pitfall to catch the unwary, and send 
them straight fe^ell. 


172 


FOR FAITH AF[I) FREEDOM. 


For my part/^ Barnaby went on, slowly, I could never 
love such a life. Let others, if they will, find out rough and 
craggy ways that lead to Heaven. For my part, I am content 
to go along the plain and smooth high-road with the rest of 
mankind, though it brings us to a lower place, inhabited by 
the baser sort. ' Well, I dare say I shall find mates there, and 
we will certainly make ourselves as comfortable as the place 
allws. Let my father, therefore, find out what awaits him 
in the other world; let me take what comes in this. Some of 
it is sweet, and some is bitter; some of it makes us laugh and 
sing and dance, and some makes us curse and swear and 
bellow out as when one is lashed to the hatches and the cat 
falls on his naked back. Sometimes, sister, I think the naked 
negroes of the west coast the happiest people in the world. 
Do they trouble their heads about the way to Heaven? Not 
they. What comes they take, and they ask no more. Has it 
made dad the happier to find out how few are those who sit 
beside him when he hath his harp and crown? Not so. He 
would have been happier if he had been a jolly plowboy 
whistling to his team, or a jolly ,3ail or singing over his panni- 
kin of drink of a Saturday night. He tried to make me follow 
in his footsteps; he flogged me daily in the hope of making me 
take, like'^iiimself, to the trade of proving to people out of the 
Holy Bible that they are surely damned. The more he flogged 
the less I yearned after that trade, till at last I resolved that, 
come what would, I would never thump a pulpit like him in 
conventicle or church. Then, if you will believe me, sister, I 
grew tired of flogging, which, when it comes every day, wearies 
a boy at fourteen or fifteen more than you would think. Now, 
one day while I was dancing to the pipe and tabor with some 
of the village girls, as bad luck would have it, dad came by. 
‘ Child of Satan I"* he roared, seizing me by the ear, which I 
verily thought he would have pulled off. Then to the girls, 
^ Your laughter shall be turned into mourning,^ and so lugged 
me home and sent me supperless to bed, with the promise of 
such a flogging in the morning as should make all previous 
floggings seem mere flea-bites or joyous ticklings in compari- 
son. This decided me. So in the dead of night I crept softly 
down the stairs, cut myself a great hunch of bread and cheese, 
and so ran away and went to sea. 

Barnaby, was it well done — to run away?^^ 

Well, sister, Tis done, and if it was ill done, Tis by this 
time, no doubt, forgotten. Now, remember, I blame not my 
father. Before all things he would save my soul alive. That 
was why he flogged me. He knew but oa^Avay, and along 




FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. 173 

that way he would drive me. So he flogged me the harder. I 
blame him not. Yet had I remained he would doubtless be 
flogging me still. Now remember, again, that ever since 1 
understood anything I have always been enraged to think upon 
the monstrous oppression which silenced him and brought us 
all to poverty, and made my mother, a gentlewoman born, 
work her fingers to the bone, and caused me to choose between 
being a beggarly scholar, driven to teach brats and endure 
flouts and poverty, or to put on an apron and learn a trade. 
Wherefore, when I found that Monmouth was going to hoist 
his flag I came with him in order to strike a blow, and I hoped 
a good blow, too, at the oppressors. 

You have struck that blow, Barnaby, and where are we?^^ 

He laughed. 

‘‘We are in hiding. Some of the king^s troopers did I 
make to bite the dust. They may hang me for it if they will. 
They wilhnot bring those troopers back to life. Well — Sis- 
ter, I am sleepy. Good-night. 

We might have continued this kind of life I kno\^^pot how 
much longer. Certainly till the cold nights came.^ The 
weather continued fine and warm, the hut kept off dews at 
night; we lay warm among the heather and the fenlS^ Barna- 
by found a sufficiency of food; my father grew nd worse to 
outward seeming, and we seemed in safety. ^ 

Then an ill chance and my own foolishness marred all. 

One day, in the Mternoon, Barnaby being away looking 
after his snares and gins, I heard, lower down the coomb, 
voices of boys talking. This affrighted me terribly. The 
voices seemed to be drawing nearer. Now if the children 
came up as high as our encampment they could not fail to see 
the signs of habitation. There was the hut among the trees 
and the iron pot standing among the gray embers of last 
night 'S fire. The cart stood on one side. We could not possi- 
bly remain hidden. If. they should come up so far and find 
us they would certainly carry the report of us down to the 
village. 

I considered, therefore, what to do, and then ran quickly 
down the coomb, keeping among the trees, so as not to be seen. 

After a little I discovered, a little way off, a couple of boys 
about nine years of age. They were common village boys, 
rosy-faced and wholesome; they carried a basket, and they 
were slowly making their way up the stream, stopping now to 
throw a stone at a squirrel^, and now to dam the running 
water, and now to find a nut or filbert ripe enough to be 
eaten. By tlie basket which they carried I knew that they 


174 


FOE FAITH AND FEEEDOM. 


were come in search of whortleberries, for which purpose they 
would have to get quite to the end of the comb and the top of 
the hill. 

Therefore I stepped out of the wood and asked them whence 
they came and whither they were going. 

They told me in the broadest Somersetshire (the language 
which I love, and would willingly have written this book in it, 
but for the unfortunate people who can not understand it) 
that they were sent by their parents to get whortleberries, and 
that they came from the little village of Corfe, two miles down 
the valley. This was all they had to say, and they stared at 
me as shyly as if they had never before encountered a stranger. 
I clearly perceive now that I ought to have engaged them in 
conversation, and drawn, them gently down the valley in the 
direction of the village until we reached the first appearance of 
a road, when I could have bidden them farewell, or sent them 
up the hill by another coomb. But I was so anxious that they 
should not come up any higher that I committed a great mis- 
take, and warned them against going on. 

Boys,^^ I said, beware. If you go higher up the coomb 
you will certainly meet wild men, who always rob and beat 
boys.^'" Here they trembled, though they had not a penny in 
the world. Ay, boys, and sometimes have been known to 
murder them. Turn back, turn back, and come no further.'’^ 

The boys were very much frightened, partly at the appari- 
tion of a stranger where they expeofced to find no one, and 
partly at the news of wild and murderous men in a place 
where they had never met with any one at all, unless it might 
have been a gypsy camp. After gazing at me. stupidly for a 
little while they turned and ran away, as fast as their legs 
could carry them, down the coomb. 

I watched them running, and when they were out of sight I 
went back again, still disquieted, because they might return. 

When I told Barnaby, in the evening, he too was uneasy. 
For, he said, the boys would spread abroad the report that 
there were people in the valley. What people could there be 
but fugitives?^'’ 

Sister,^^ he said, to-morrow morning must we change 
our quarters. On the other side of the hills looking south, or 
to the east in Neroche Forest, we may make another camp, 
and be still more secluded. For to-night I think we are in 
safety. 

What happened was exactly as Barnaby thought. For the 
lads ran home and told everybody that up in the coomb there 
were wild men ?/ho robbed and murdered people; that a lady 


FOK FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


175 


had come out of the wood and warned them to go no further lest 
they should be robbed and murdered. They were certain it 
was a lady, and not a countrywoman, nor was it a witch, nor 
a fairy or elf, of whom there are many on Black Down. No; 
it was a young lady. 

This strange circumstance naturally set the villagers a-talk- 
ing; they talked about it at the inn, whither they nightly 
repaired. 

In ordinary times they might have talked about it to their 
hearts^ content and no harm done, but in these times talk was 
dangerous. In every little village there are one or two whose 
wits are sharper than the rest, and therefore they do instigate 
whatever mischief is done in that village. At Corfe the cob- 
bler it was who did the mischief. For he sat thinking while 
the others talked, and he presently began to understand that 
there was more in this than his fellows imagined. He knew 
the hills; there were no wild men upon them who would rob 
and murder two simple village boys. Gypsies there were, and 
broom-squires sometimes, and hedge-tearers, but murderers of 
boys — none. And who was the young lady? Then he guessed 
the whole truth; there were people lying hidden in the coomb; 
if people hidden, they were Monmouth^s rebels. A reward 
would be given for their capture. Fired with this thought he 
grasped his cudgel, and walked off to the village of Orchard 
Portman, where, as he had heard, there was a company of 
grenadiers sent out to scour the country. He laid his infor- 
mation, and received the promise of reward. He got that re- 
ward, in short, but nothing prospered with him afterward. 
Ilis neighbors, who were all for Monmouth, learned what he 
had done, and shunned him. He grew moody; he fell into 
poverty, who had been a thriving tradesman, and he died in a 
ditch. The judgments of the Lord are sometimes swift and 
sometimes slow, yet they are always sure. Who can forget 
the dreadful end of Tom Boilman, as he was called, the only 
wretch who could be found to cut up the limbs of the hanged 
men and dip them in the cauldrons of pitch? For he was 
struck dead by lightning — an awful instance of the wrath of 
God. 

Early next morning, about five of the clock, I sat before 
the hut in the shade. Barnaby was up, and had gone to look 
at his snares. Suddenly I heard steps below, and the sound 
of weapons clashing against each other. Then a man came 
into sight — a fellow he was with a leathern apron, who stood 
gazing about him. There was no time for me to hide, because 
he immediately saw me, and shouted to them behind to come 


176 


FOR FAITH AKD FREEDOM. 


on quickly. Then a dozen soldiers, all armed, ran out of the 
wood and made for the hut. 

Gentlemen, I cried, running to meet them, ‘^whom 
seek you?^^ 

Who are you?^^ asked one, who seemed to be a sergeant 
over them. Why are you hiding?^^ 

Then a thought struck me. I know not if I was wise or 
foolish. 

‘‘ Sir,^^ I replied, my father, it is true, was with the Duke 
of Monmouth. But he was wounded, and now lies dead in 
this hut. You will suffer us to bury our dead in peace. 

Dead is he? That will we soon see.^^* 

So saying he entered the hut and looked at the prostrate 
form. He lifted one hand and let it drop. It fell like the 
hand of one who is recently dead. He bent over the body and 
laid his hand upon the forehead. It was cold as death. The 
lips were pale as wax, and the cheeks were white. He opened 
an eye; there was no expression or light in it. 

Humph!^^ he said. He seems dead. How did he come 
here?’^ 

My mother and I drove him here for safety in yonder cart. 
The pony hath run away.^^ 

That may be so — that may be so. He is dressed in a 
cassock. What is his name?^^ 

He was Doctor Comfort Eykin, an ejected minister, and 
preacher in the duke^s army. 

A prize if he had been alive. Then a sudden suspicion 
seized him. He had in his hand a drawn sword. He pointed 
it at the breast of the dead man. If he be truly dead,^^ he 
said, another wound will do him no harm. Wherefore — 
He made as if he would drive the sword through my father ^s 
breast, and my mother shrieked and threw herself across the 
body. 

So!^^ he said, with a horrid grin, I find that he is not 
dead, but only wounded. My lads, here is one of Monmouth ^s 
preachers, but he is sore wounded. 

‘‘ Oh!^^ I cried, for. the love of God suffer him to die in 
peace. 

Ay, ay, he shall die in peace; I promise you sd much. 
Meanwhile, madame, we will take better care of him in 
Ilminster jail than you can do here. The air is raw upon 
these hills. The fellow had a glib tongue and a mocking 
manner. You have none of the comforts^ which a wounded 
man requires. They are all to be found in Ilminster prison, 
whither we shall carry him. There will he have notloing to 



FOR FAITH AKD FREEDOM. 177 

think about, with everything found for him. Madame, your 
father will be well bestowed with us. 

At that moment I heard the footsteps of Barnaby crunching 
among the brushwood. 

‘^Fly! Barnaby, fly!^^ I shrieked. ‘‘The enemy is upon 
us.^^ 

He did not fly. He came running. He rushed upon the 
soldiers and hurled this man one way and that man another, 
swinging his long arms like a pair of cudgels. Had he had a 
cudgel I believe he would have sent them all flying. But he 
had nothing except his arms and his fists; and in a minute or 
two the soldiers had surrounded him, each with a bayonet 
pointed, and such a look in every man^s eye as meant murder 
had Barnaby moved. 

“ Surrender said the sergeant. 

Barnaby looked around leisurely. “ Well,^^ he said, “I 
suppose I must. As for my name, it is Barnaby Eykin, and 
for my rank, I was captain in the Green Eegiment of the 
duke^s valiant army."^^ 

“ Stop!^^ said the sergeant, drawing a paper from his 
pocket. “ ‘ Captain Eykin, ^ he began to read, “ ‘ has been 
a sailor. Rolls in his walk; height, about five foot five; very 
broad in the shoulders; long in the arms; of great strength.^ 

“ That is so/’ said Barnaby, complacently. 

“ ‘Bandy legs. ^ 

“ Brother,^^ said Barnaby, “ is that so writ?^^ 

“ It is so, captain.'’^ 

“ I did not think, said Barnaby, “that the malignity of 
the enemy would be carried so far. Bandy legs! Yet you see 
— well — Fall in, sergeant; we are your prisoners. Bandy 
legs!^^ 


CHAPTER XXV. 

How can I tell — oh! how can I sit down to tell in cold blood 
the story of all that followed? Some parts of it, for very pity, 
I must pass over. All that has been told or written of the 
Bloody Assize is most true, and yet not half that happened 
can be told. There are things, I mean, which the historian 
can not, for the sake of pity, decency, and consideration for 
living people, relate, even if he hath seen them. You who 
read the printed page may learn how in one place so many 
were hanged; in another place so many; how some were hung 
in gemmaces, so that at every cross-road there was a frightful 
gibbet with a dead man. on it; bow some died of small-pox iu 


178 


FOK FAITH AND J'REEDOH. 


the crowded prisons, and some of fever; and how Judge Jef- 
freys rode from town to town' followed by gangs of miserable 
prisoners driven after him to stand their trial in towns where 
they would be known; how the wretched sufferers were drawn 
and quartered, and their limbs seethed in pitch and stuck up 
over the whole couutry; how the women and boys of tender 
.years were flogged through market towns — you, I say, who 
read these things on the cold page, presently (even if you be a 
stickler for the Right Divine, and hold rebellion as a mortal 
sin) feel your blood to boil with righteous wrath. The hand 
of the Lord was afterward heavy upon those who ordered these 
things; nay, at the very time (this is a most remarkable judg- 
ment) when this inhuman judge was thundering at his victims 
— so that some went mad and even dropped down dead with 
fear — he was himself, as Humphrey hath assured me, suffering 
the most horrible pain from a dire disease; so that the terrors 
of his voice and of his fiery eyes were partly due to the agony 
of his disease, and he was enduring all through that Assize, in 
his own body, pangs greater than any that he ordered. As for 
his miserable end, and the fate that overtook his master, that 
we know; and candid souls can not but confess that here were 
truly judgments of God, visible for all to see and acknowledge. 
But no pen can truly depict what the eye saw and the ear 
heard during that terrible time. And, think you, if it was a 
terrible and a wretched time for those who had no illations 
among the rebels, and only looked on and saw these bloody 
executions and heard the lamentations of the poor women who 
lost their lovers or their husbands, what must it have been for 
me, and those like me, whose friends ^nd all whom they loved 
—yea, all, all— were overwhelmed in one common ruin, and 
expected nothing but death? 

Our own misery I can not truly set forth. Sometimes the 
memory of it comes back to me, and it is as if long afterward 
one should feel again the sharpness of the surgeon ^s knife. 
Oh! since I must write down what happened, let me be brief. 
And you who read it, if you find the words cold where you 
would have looked for fire, if you find no tears where there 
should have been weeping and wailing, remember that in the 
mere writing have been shed again (but these you can not see) 
tears which belonged to that time, and in the writing have 
been renewed (but these you can not hear) the sobbings and 
wailings and terrors of that dreadful autumn. 

The soldiers belonged to a company of grenadiers of Trelaw- 
ny^s regiment, stationed at Ilminster, whither they carried the 
prisoners. First they handcuffed Barnaby, but on his giving 


FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. 


179 


his parole not to escape, they let him go free; and he proved 
useful in the handling of the cart on which my unhappy father 
lay. And though the soldiers^ talk was ribald, their jests un- 
seemly, and their cursing and swearing seemed verily to invite 
the wrath of God, yet they proved honest fellows in the main. 
They offered no rudeness to us, nor did they object to our 
going with the prisoners; nay, they even gave us bread and 
meat and cider from their own provisions when they halted for 
dinner at noon. Barnaby walked sometimes with the soldiers, 
and sometimes with us; with them he talked freely, as if he 
were their comrade and not their prisoner: for us he put in a 
word of encouragement or consolation such as, Mother, we 
shall find a way out of this coil yet,^^ or, Sister, we shall 
cheat Tom Hangman; look not so gloomy upon it;’^ or, again, 
he reminded us that many a shipwrecked sailor gets safe 
ashore, and that where there are so many they can not hang 
all. Would the king,^^ he asked, hang up the whole county 
of Somerset?^^ But he had already told me too much. In 
his heart I knew he had small hope of escape; yet he preserved 
his cheerfulness, and walked toward his prison (to outward 
seeming) as insensible of fear and with as unconcerned a coun- 
tenance as if he were going to a banquet or a wedding. This 
cheerfulness of his was due to happy confidence in the order- 
ing of things rather than to insensibility. A sailor sees men 
die in many ways, yet himself remains alive. This gives him 
something of the disposition of the Orientalist, who accepts his 
fate with outward unconcern, whatever it may be. Perhaps 
(I know not) there may have been in his mind that religious 
assurance of which he told me. Did Barnaby at this period, 
when death was very near unto him, really believe that there 
was one religion for landsmen and another for sailors? oneway 
to heaven for ministers, another for seamen? Indeed I can 
not tell; yet how otherwise account for his courage and cheer- 
fulness at all times — even in the very presence of death? 

Brother, he asked the sergeant, “ we hav^ been lying hid 
for a fortnight, and have heard no news. Tell me how go the 
hangings?^ ^ 

‘‘ Why, captain, the fellow replied, with a grin, ^^in this 
respect there is little for the rebels to complain of. They 
ought to be satisfied, so far, with the attentions paid to them. 
Lord Feversham hanged twenty odd, to begin with. Captain 
Adlaw and three others are trussed up in chains for their great 
honor; and in order to put the rest in good heart, one of them 
ran a race with a horse, being promised his life if he should 
win. When he h^d beaten the horse his lordship, who was a 


180 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


merry man, ordered him to be hanged just to laugh at him. 
And hanged he was. ^^ 

Ay/^ said Barnaby, thus do the Indians in America 
torture their prisoners first and kill them afterward.'’^ 

There are two hundred prisoners lying in Weston Zoyland 
church/^ the sergeant went on. They would have been 
hanged too, but the bishop interfered. Now they are waiting 
to be tried. Lord ! what signifies trial, except to give them 
longer rope?^^ 

Ay, ay. And how go things in Bridgewater and Taun 
ton?^^ 


Prom' Weston to Bridgewater there is aline of gibbets i 
already; in Taunton twenty, I believe, have swung — twenty 
at least. The drums beat, the fifes played, and the trumpets 
sounded, and Colonel Kirke drank to the health of every man 
(such was his condescension) before he was turned off. -^Twould 
have done your heart good, captain, only to see the brave 
show. 


Ay, ay,^^ said Barnaby; ‘S^ery like, very like. Perhaps 
I shall have the opportunity of playing first part in another 
brave show if all goes well. Hath the duke escaped?^ ^ 

We heard yesterday that he is taken somewhere near the 
New Forest. So that he will before long lay his lovely head 
upon the block. Captain, your friends have brought their pigs 
to a pretty market. 

They have, brother; they have,^^ replied Barnaby, with 
unmoved countenance. Yet many a man hath recovered 
from worse straits than these. 

I listened with sinking heart. Much I longed to ask if the 
sergeant knew aught of Eobin, but I refrained, lest merely to 
name him might put the soldiers on the look-out for him, 
should he happily be in hiding. 

Next the sergeant told us (which terrified me greatly) that 
there was no part of the country where they were not scour- 
ing for fugitives; that they were greatly assisted by the clergy, 
who, he said, were red-hot for King James; that the men were 
found hiding, as we had hidden, in linneys, in hedges, in barns, 
in woods; that they were captured by treachery — by informa- 
tion laid, and even, most cruel thing of all, by watching and 
following the men’s sweethearts who were found taking food 
to them. He said also that, at the present rate, they would 
have to enlarge their prisons to admit ten times their number, 
for they were haling into them not only the men who had fol- 
lowed Monmouth, but also those who had helped him with 
money, arms, or men. The sergeant w'as a brutal fellow, yet 


FOR FAITH AISTD FREEDOM. 


181 


there was about him something of good nature and even of 
compassion for the men he had captured. Yet he seemed to 
take delight in speaking of the sufferings of the unfortimate 
prisoners. The soldiers, he told us, were greatly enrage(feto- 
ward the rebels — not, I suppose, on account of their rebellion, 
because three years later they themselves showed how skin- 
deep was their loyalty, but because the rustics, whom they 
thought contemptible, had surprised and nearly beaten them. 
And this roused in them the spirit of revenge. 

Captain, said the sergeant, ^tis a pity that so lusty a 
gentleman as thou shouldst die. Hast thee no friends at 
court? No? Nor any who would speak for thee? ^Tis pity. 
Yet a man can die but once. With such a neck as thine, be- 
speak, if so much grace be accorded thee, a long rope and a 
high gallows. Else, when it comes to the quartering — he 
stopped and shook his head — but there — I wish you well out 
of it, captain. 

In the evening, just before sunset, we arrived at Ilminster, 
after a sad and weary march of ten miles at least; but we could 
not leave the prisoners until we knew how and where they 
were bestowed; and during all this time my mother, who com- 
monly walked not abroad from one Sabbath to the next, was 
possessed with such a spirit that she seemed to feel no weari- 
ness. When we rode all night, in order to join the duke, she 
complained not; when we rode painfully across to Taunton, 
she murmured not; nor when we carried our wounded man up 
the rough and steep coomb; no, nor on this day, when she 
walked beside her husband^s head, careful lest the motion of 
the cart should cause him pain. But he felt nothing, poor 
soul! He would feel nothing any more. 

Ilminster is a goodly town, rich and prosperous with its spin- 
ners and weavers. This evening, however, there was no one 
in the streets except the troopers, who swaggered up and down, 
or sat drinking at the tavern door. There is a broad open 
place before the market, which stands upon great stone pillars. 
Outside the market is the clink, or prison, whither the soldiers 
were taking their prisoners. The troopers paid not the least 
heed to our mournful little procession — a wounded man, a 
prisoner in scarlet and lace, but the cloth tattered and stained 
and the lace torn. There were only two more men on their 
way to death. What doth a soldier care for the sight of a man 
about to die?^^ 

Mothei’,^^ said Barnaby, when we drew near the prison 
doors, come not within the prison. I will do all that I can 
for him. Go now and find a decent lodging, and, sister, mark 




182 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. J 

ye, the lads in our army were rough, but they were as lambs ^ 
compared with these swaggering troopers. Keep snug, there- 
fore, and venture not far abroad. 

I^M^hispered in his ear that I had his bag of money safe, so 
that he could have whatever he wanted if that could be bought. 
Then the prison doors were closed, and we stood without. 

It would have been hard indeed for the wife and daughter of 
Dr. Comfort Eykin not to find a lodging among godly people, 
of whom there are always many in every town of Somerset. 

We presently obtained a room in the house of one Martha 
Prior, widow of the learned and pious Joshua Prior, whilom 
preacher and ejected minister. Her case was as hard as our 
own. This poor woman had two sons only, and both had gone 
to join the duke: one already risen to be a serge-maker and 
one a draper, of the town. Of her sons she could hear no news 
at all, whether they were alive or dead. If they were already 
dead, or if they should be hanged, she would have no means of 
support, and so must starve or eat the bread of charity. (I 
heard afterward that she never did hear anything of them, so 
that it is certain that they must have been killed on the bat- 
tle-field or cut down by the dragoons in trjdng to escape. But 
the poor soul survived not long their loss. ) 

The church of Ilminster stands upon a rising ground; on 
the north is the grammar-school, and on the other three sides 
are houses of the better sort, of which Mrs. Prior had one. 
The place, which surrounds the church-yard, and hath no inn 
or ale-house in it, is quiet and retired. The soldiers came not 
thither, except once or twice, with orders to search the houses 
(and with a private* resolution to drink everything that they 
might lay their hands upon), so that for two poor women in 
our miserable circumstances we could not have a more quiet 
lodging. 

Despite our troubles, I slept so well that night that it was 
past seven in the morning when I awoke. The needs of the 
body do sometimes overcome the cares of the spirit. For a 
whole fortnight had we been making our beds on the heather, 
and therefore without taking off our clothes, and that day we 
had walked ten miles, at least, with the soldiers, so that I slept 
without moving or waking all the night. In the morning we 
dressed quickly and hurried to the jail, not knowing whether 
I might be admitted or should be allowed speech of Barnaby. 
Outside the gate, however, I found a crowd of people going 
into the prison and coming out of it. Seme of them, women 
like ourselves, W'ere weeping — they were those whose brothers 
or lovers, husbands or sons, were in those gloomy walls. ^ 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 183 

Others there were who brought for such of the prisoners as 
had money to buy them, eggs, butter, white bread, chickens, 
fruit, and all kinds of provisions; some brought wine, cider, 
and ale — some, tobacco. The warders who stood at the gates 
made no opposition to those who would enter. I pressed in 
with a beating heart, prepared for a scene of the most dreadful 
repentance and gloomy forebodings. What I saw was quite 
otherwise. 

The gates of the prison opened upon a court-yard, not very 
big, where the people were selling their wares, and some of the 
prisoners were walking about, and some wery chaffering with 
the women who had the baskets. On the right-hand side of 
the yard was the clink, or prison itself; on the left hand were 
houses for the warders or officers of the prison. In general a 
single warder, constable, or headborough is enough for a town 
such as Ilminster, to keep the peace of the prison, which is 
for the most part empty, save when they enforce some new Act 
against Non-conformists, and fill it with them or with Quakers. 
Now, however, so great was the press that, instead of two, 
there were a dozen guards, and instead of a stout cudgel, they 
went armed with pike and cutlass to keep order and prevent 
escapes. Six of them occupied the gate-house; other six were 
within, in a sort of guard-house, where they slept on the left 
hand of the court. 

The'ground-fioor of the clink we found to be a large room, 
at least forty feet each side in bigness. . On one side of it was 
a great fire-place, where, though it was the month of July, 
there was burning a great fire of Welsh coal, partly for cook- 
ing purposes, because all that the prisoners eat was cooked at 
this fire, and partly because a great fire kept continually burn- 
ing sweetens the air and wards off jail fever. On another side 
was a long table and several benches. Thick wooden pillars 
supported the joists of the rooms above; the windows were 
heavily barred, but the shutters were down, and there was no 
glass in them. In spite of fire and open windows the place 
was stifling, and smelled most horrible. Never have I breathed 
so foul an air. There lived in this room about eighty prisoners 
(later on the numbers were doubled); some were smoking 
tobacco and drinking cider or ale; some were frying pieces of 
meat over the fire; and the tobacco, the ale, the wine, the 
cooking, and the people themselves — nearly all country lads, 
unwashed, who had slept, since Sedgemoor, at least, in the 
same' clothes, without once changing — made such an air that 
jail fever, putrid throats, and small-pox (which afterward 
broke out) should haye been expected sooner. 



They were all talking, laughing, and even singing, so that, 
in addition to the noisome stench of the place, there was such 
a din as one may hear at Sherborne Fair of an evening. I ex- 
pected, as I have said, a gloomy silence, with the rattling of 
chains, the groans of those who looked for death, and perhaps 
a godly repentance visible upon every countenance. Yet they 
were all laughing, except a few who sat retired, and who were 
wounded. I say that they were all laughing. They had noth- 
ing to expect but death, or at the best to be horribly flogged, 
to be transported, to be fined, branded, and ruined. Yet they 
laughed! What means the hardness and indifference of men? 
Could they not think of the women they had left at home? I 
warrant that none of them were laughing. 

Among them — a pipe of tobacco in his lips and a mug of 
strong ale before him on the table, his hat fiung backward — 
sat Barnaby> his face showing, apparently, complete sa.tisfac- . 
tion with his lot. 

When he saw us at the door he rose and came to meet us. 
Welcome, ^Mie said. This is one of the places where 
King Monniouth^s men are to receive the honor due to them. 
Courage, gentle hearts. Be not cast down. Everywhere the j 
prisons are full, and more are brought in every day. Our very i 
numbers are our safety. They can not hang us all. And, ^ 
hark!^^ here he whispered, sister, we now know that Colonel j 
Kirke hath been selling pardons at ten pounds, twenty pounds, i 
and thirty pounds apiece. Wherefore we are well assured that | 
somehow or other we shall be able to buy our release. There | 
are plenty besides Colonel Kirke who will sell a prisoner his ] 
freedom . \ 
Where is your father?^"" asked my mother. ^ 

‘‘ He is bestowed above, where it is quieter, except for the | 
groaning of the wounded. Go upstairs and you will find him. 

• And there is a surprise for you besides. You will find with i 
him one you little expect to see.-’^ 

“Ch, Barnaby, is there new misery for me? Is Eobin a ; 
prisoner ?^^ 

“ Eobin is not here, sis, and as for misery, why, that is as | 
you take it. To be sure, the man above is in prison, but no < 
harm will happen him. Why should it? He did not go out j 
with Monmouth’s men. But go upstairs — go upstairs — and ^ 
see for yourselves. ” 


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NUMERICAL CATALOGUE. 

[When ordering by mail please order by numbers.'] 

1 Yolande. By William Black.. 20 

2 Molly Bawn. “The Duchess” 20 

3 Mill on the Floss, The. By 

George Eliot 20 

4 Under Two Flags. By “ Ouida ” 20 

5 Admiral’s Ward, The. By Mrs. 

Alexander 20 

6 Portia. By “The Duchess ”. .. 20 

7 File No. 113. By Emile Gaboriau 20 

8 East Lynne. By Mrs. Henry 

Wood. 1st and 2d half, each 20 
9 Wanda, Countess von Szalras. 

By “Ouida” 20 

10 Old Curiosity Shop, The. By 

Charles Dickens 20 

11 John Halifax, Gentleman. By 
MissMulock. 2 parrs, eaiih. 20 

12 Other People’s Money. By 

Emile Gaboriau 20 

13 Eyre’s Acquittal. By Helen B. 

Mathers 10 

14 Airy Fairy Lilian. By “ The 

Duchess” 10 

15 Jane Eyre. By Charlotte Bront6 20 

16 Phyllis. By “The Duchess”.. 20 

17 Wooing O’t, The. By Mrs. Alex- 

ander 20 

18 Shandon Bells. By Wm. Black 20 

19 Her Mother’s Sin. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne 10 

20 Within an Inch of His Life. 

By Emile Gaboriau 20 

21 Sunrise : A Story of These Times 

By Wm. Black 20 

22 David Copperfield. By Charles 

Dickens. Vol. 1 20 

22 David Copperfield. By Charles 
Dickens. Vol. 11 20 


23 Princess of Thule, A. By Will 

iam Black 20 

24 Pickwick Papers. By Charles 

Dickens. Vol. 1 20 

24 Pickwick Papers. By Charles 

Dickens. Vol. II 20 

25 Mrs.Geoffre 3 ^ “ The Duchess.” 

(Large type edition) 20 

950 Mrs. Geoffrey. “The Duchess” 10 

26 Monsieur Lecoq. By Emile 

Gaboriau. Vol. 1 20 

26 Monsieur Lecoq. By Emile 

Gaboriau. Vol. II 20 

27 Vanity Fair. By William M. 

Thackeray. Two parts, each 20 

28 Ivanhoe. By Sir Walter Scott. 20 

29 Beauty’s Daughters. By “ The 

Duchess” 10 

30 Faith and Unfaith. By “ The 

Duchess” 20 

31 Middlemarch. By George Eliot. 

First half 20 

31 Middlemarch. By George Eliot. 

Second half 20 

32 Land Leaguers, The. By An- 

thony Trollope 20 

33 Clique of Gold, The. By Emile 

Gaboriau 20 

34 Daniel Deronda. By George 

Eliot. First half 20 

34 Daniel Deronda. By George 

Eliot. Second half 20 

35 Lady Audley’s Secret. By Miss 

M. E. Braddon 20 

36 Adam Bede. By George Eliot. 

In Two Parts, each 20 

37 Nicholas Nickleby. By Charles 

Dickens. In Two Parts, each 20 


2 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 


38 Widow Lerouge, The. By Emile 

Gaboriau 

89 In Silk Attire. By William Black 

40 Last Days of 'Pompeii, The. By 

Bulwer Lytton 

41 Oliver Twist. By Chas. Dickens 

43 Romola. By George Eliot 

43 Mystery of Orcival, The. By 

Emile Gaboriau 

44 Macleod of Dare. Wm. Black. 

45 Little Pilgrim, A. By Mrs. Oli- 

phant 

40 Very Hard Cash. By Charles 
Reade 

47 Altiora Peto. By Laurence Oli- 

phant 

48 Thicker Than Water. By James 

Payn 

49 That Beautiful Wretch. By 

William Black 

50 Strange Adventures of a Phae- 

ton, The. By William Black. 

51 Dora Thorne. By Charlotte M. 

Braeme 

52 New Magdalen, The. By Wilkie 

Collins 

53 Story of Ida, The. By Francesca 

54 Broken Wedding-Ring, A. By 

Charlotte M. Braetne, author 
of “ Dora Thorne ” 

55 Three Guardsmen, The. By 

Alexander Dumas 

56 Phantom Fortune. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 

57 Shirley. By Charlotte Bront6. 

58 By the Gate of the Sea. By D. 

Christie Murray 

59 Vice Versa. By F. Anstey 

60 Last of the Mohicans, The. By 

J. Fenimore Cooper 

61 Charlotte Temple. By Mrs. 

Rowson 

62 Executor, The. By Mrs. Alex- 

ander 

63 Spy, The. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 

64 Maiden Fair, A. Charles Gibbon 

65 Back to the Old Home. By 

Mary Cecil Hay 

66 Romance of a Poor VoungMan, 

The. By Octave Feuillet 

67 Lorna Doone. By R. D. Black- 

more. First half 

67 Lorna Doone. By R. D. Black- 

more. Second half 

68 Queen Amongst Women, A. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme, author 
of “Dora Thorne” 

69 Madolin’s Lover. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “Dora 

Thorne ” 

(70 White Wings: A Yachting Ro- 
mance. By William Black . . 

71 struggle for Fame, A. By Mrs. 

J. H. Riddell 

72 Old Myddel ton’s Money. By 

Mary Cecil Hay 


73 Redeemed by Love; or. Love’s 

Victory. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne ” 20 

74 Aurora Floyd. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 20 

75 Twenty Years After. By Alex- 

ander Dumas 20 

76 Wife in Name Only; or, A Bro- 

ken Heart. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne ” 20 

77 Tale of Two Cities, A. By 

Charles Dickens 20 

78 Madcap Violet. By Wm. Black 20 

79 Wedded and Parted. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“Dora Thorne” - 10 

80 June. By Mrs. Forrester 20 

81 Daughter of Heth, A. By Will- 

iam Black 20 

82 Sealfd Lips. F. Du Boisgobey. 20 

83 Strange Story, A. By Sir E. 

Bulwer Lytton 20 

84 Hard Times. By Chas. Dickens 10 

85 Sea Queen, A. By W. Clark 

Russell 20 

86 Belinda. By Rhoda Broughton 20 

87 Dick Sand; or, A Captain at 

Fifteen. By Jules Verne 30 

88 Privateersman, The. By Cap- 

tain Marry at.. 20 

89 Red Eric, The. By R. M. Ballan- 

tyne . 10 

90 Ernest Maltravers. BySirE.Bul- 

wer Lytton 20 

91 Barnaby Rudge. By Charles 

Dickens. First half 30 

91 Barnaby Rudge. By Charles 

Dickens. Second half 20 

92 Lord Lynne’s Choice. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“Dora Thorne” 10 

93 Anthony Trollope’s Autobiog- 

raph3’ 20 

94 Little Dorrit. By Charles Dick- 

ens. First half 20 

94 Little Dorrit. By Charles Dick- 

ens. Second half 20 

95 Fire Brigade, The. By R. M. 

Ballantyne 10 

96 Erling the Bold. By R. M. Bal- 

lantyne 10 

97 All in a Garden Fair. By Wal- 

ter Besant 20 

98 Woman-Hater, A. By Charles 

Reade 20 

99 Barbara’s History. B.y Amelia 

B. Edwards 20 

100 20,000 Leagues Under the Seas. 


101 Second Thoughts. By Rhoda' 

Broughton 20 

102 Moonstone, The. Wilkie Collins 20 

103 Rose Fleming. By Dora Russell 10 

104 Coral Pin, The. By F. Du Bois- 

gobey. 1st half 20 

104 Coral Pin, The. By F. Du Bois- 
gobey, 2d half 20 


20 

20 

30 

20 

20 

20 

20 

10 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

10 

10 

20 

20 

20 

20 

10 

20 

20 

10 

20 

20 

10 

10 

10 

20 

20 

10 

20 

10 

20 

20 



THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 


3 


105 Noble Wife, A. John Saunders 30 

106 Jileak House. By Charles Dick- 

ens. First half 20 

106 Bleak House. By Charles Dick- 

ens. Second half 20 

107 Dombey and Son. By Charles 

Dickens. First half 20 

107 Dombey and Son. By Charles 

Dickens. Second half 20 

108 Cricket on the Hearth, The. 

By Charles Dickens 10 

108 Doctor Marigold. By Charles 

Dickens 10 

109 Little Loo. By W. Clark Russell 20 

110 Under tlie Red Flag. By Miss 

M. E. Braddon 10 

111 Little School-master Mark, The. 

By J. H. Shorthouse 10 

112 Waters of Marah, The. By John 

Hill 20 

113 Mrs. Carr’s Companion. By M. 

G. Wight wick 10 

114 Some of Our Girls. By Mrs. C. 

J. Eiloart 20 

115 Diamond Cut Diamond. By T. 

Adolphus Trollope 10 

116 Moths. By “Ouida” 20 

117 Tale of the Shore and Ocean, A. 

By William H. G. Kingston.. 20 

118 Loys, Lord Berresford, and 

Eric Dering. “ The Duchess ” 10 

119 Monica, and A Rose Distill’d. 

By “The Duchess” 10 

120 Tom Brown’s School Days at 

Rugby. By Thomas Hughes. 20 

121 Blaid of Athens. By Justin 

McCarthy 20 

122 lone Stewart. By Mrs. E. Lynn 

Linton 20 

123 Sweet is True Love. By “ The 

Duchess ” 10 

124 Three Feathers. By Wm. Black 20 

125 Monarch of Mincing Lane, The. 

By William Black 20 

126 Kilmeny. By William Black.. 20 

127 Adrian Bright. By Mrs. Caddy 20 

128 Afternoon, and Other Sketches. 

By “ Ouida” 10 

129 Rossmoyne. By “ The Duchess ” 10 

130 Last of the Barons, The, By Sir 

E. Bulwer Lytton. 1st half.: 20 

130 Last of the Barons, The. By Sir 

E. Bulwer Lytton. 2d half.. 20 

131 Our Mutual Friend. By Charles 

Dickens. First half 20 

131 Our Mutual Friend. By Charles 

Dickens, Second half 20 

132 Master Humphrey’s Clock. By 

Charles Dickens 10 

133 Peter the Whaler. By William 

H. G. Kingston 10 

134 Witching Hour, The, and Other 

Stories. By “ The Duchess ” . 10 

135 Great Heiress, A : A Fortune in 

Seven Checks., By R. E. Fran- 
cillon 10 

136 “That Last Rehearsal,” and 

Other Stcries. By “The 
Duchess” 10 


137 Uncle Jack. By Walter Besant 10 

138 Gr^en Pastures and Piccadilly. 

By Wm. Black 20 

139 Romantic Adventures of a Milk- 

maid, The. By Thomas Hardy 10 

140 Glorious Fortune, A. By Wal- 

ter Besant 10 

141 She Loved Him! By Annie 

Thomas 10 

142 .Jenifer. By Annie Thomas 20 

143 One False, Both Fair. By John 

B. Harwood 20 

144 Promises of Marriage. By Emile 

Gaboriau 10 

145 “ Storm-Beaten God and The 

Man. By Robert Buchanan. 20 

146 Love Finds the Way, and Other 

Stories. By Walter Besant 
and James Rice 10 

147 Rachel Ray. By Anthony Troll- 

ope 20 

148 Thorns and Orange-Blossoms. 

By Charlotte M. Braeme, au- 
thor of “Dora Thorne” 10 

149 Captain’s Daughter, The. From 

the Russian of Pushkin 10 

150 For Himself Alone. By T. W. 

Speight 10 

151 Ducie Diamonds. The. By C. 

Blatherwick 10 

152 Uncommercial Traveler, The. 

By Charles Dickens 20 

153 Golden Calf, The. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

154 Annan Water. By Robert Buch- 

anan 20 

155 Lady Muriel’s Secret. By Jean 

Middlemas 20 

156 “Fora Dream’s Sake.” By Mrs. 

Herbert Martin 20 

157 Milly’s Hero. By F. W. Robinson 20 

158 Starling, The. By Norman 

Macleod, D.D 10 

159 Captain Norton’s Diary, and 

A Moment of Madness. By 
Florence Marryat 10 

160 Her Gentle Deeds. By Sarah 

Tytler 1® 

161 Lady of Lyons, The. Founded 

on the Play of that title by 
Lord Lytton 10 

162 Eugene Aram. By Sir E. Bulwer 

Lytton 20 

163 Winifred Power. By Joyce Dar- 

rell 20 

164 Leila ; or, The Siege of Grenada*. 

By Bulwer Lytton 10 

165 History of Henry Esmond, The. 

By William M. Thackeray. . . 20 

166 Moonshine and Marguerites. 

By “The Duchess” 10 

167 Heart and Science. By Wilkie 

Collins 20 

168 No Thoroughfare. By Dickens 

and Collins 10 

169 Haunted Man, The. By Charles 

Dickens 10 

170 A Great Treason. By Mary 

Hoppus. First half 20 


4 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocki^t Edition, 


170 A Grejut Treason. By Mary 

Hoppus. Second half 20 

171 Fortune’s Wheel. By “The 

Duchess ” 10 

172 “ Golden Girls.” By Alan Muir 20 

173 Foreigrners, The. By Eleanor C. 

Price 20 

174 Under a Ban. By Mrs. Lodg:e. 20 

175 Love’s Random Shot. By Wilkie 

Collins 10 

176 An April Day. By Philippa Prit- 

tie Jepnson 10 

177 Salem Chapel. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 

178 More Leaves from the Journal 

of a Life in the Highlands. 

By Queen Victoria 10 

179 Little Make-Believe. By B. L. 

Farjeon 10 

180 Round the Galley Fire. By W. 

Clark Russell 10 

181 New Abelard, The. By Robert 

Buchanan 10 

182 Millionaire, The 20 

183 Old Contrairy, and Other Sto- 

ries. By Florence Marryat.. 10 

184 Thirlby Hall. By W. E. Non-is 20 

185 Dita. By Lady Margaret Ma- 

jendie 10 

186 Canon’s Ward, The. By James 

Payn 20 

187 Midnight Sun, The. By Fredrika 

Bremer 10 

188 Idonea. By Anne Beale 20 

189 Valerie’s Fate. By Mrs. Alex- 

ander 10 

190 Romance of a Black Veil. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme, author 


Lever T 20 

192 At the World’s Mercy. By F. 

Warden 10 

193 Rosery Folk, The. By G. Man- 

ville Fenn 10 

194 “So Near, and Yet So Far!” 

By Alison 10 

195 “ Way of the World, The.” By 

David Christie Murray 20 

196 Hidden Perils. Mary Cecil Hay 20 

197 For Her Dear Sake. By Mary 

Cecil Hay 20 

198 Husband’s Story, A 10 

199 Fisher Village, The. By Anne 

Beale 10 

200 An Old Blan’s Love. By Anthony 

Trollope 10 

201 Monastery, The. By Sir Walter 

Scott 20 

202 Abbot, The. Sequel to “The 

Monastery.” By Sir Walter 
Scott 20 

203 John Bull and His Island. By 

MaxO’Rell. 10 

204 Vixen. By Bliss M. E. Braddon 20 

205 Minister’s Wife, The. By BIrs. 

Oliphant 30 

206 Picture, The, and Jack of All 

Trades. By Charles Reade. . . 10 


207 Pretty Miss Neville. By B. M. 

Croker 20 

208 Ghost of Charlotte Cray, The, 

and Other Stories. By Flor- 
ence Marryat 10 

209 John Holdsworth, Chief Blate. 

By AV. Clark Russell 10 

210 Readiana: Comments on Cur- 

rent Events. By Chas. Reade 10 

211 Octoroon, The. By 'Miss BI. E. 

Braddon 10 

212 Charles O’BIalley, the Irish 

Dragoon. By Charles Lever. 
First half 20 

212 Charles O’Malley, the Irish 

Dragoon. By Charles Lever. 
Second half 20 

213 Terrible Temptation, A. By 

Chas. Reade 20 

214 Put Yourself in His Place. By 

Charles Reade 20 

215 Not Like Other Girls. By Rosa 

Nouchette Carey 20 

216 Foul Play. By Charles Reade. 

217 Blan She Cared For, The. By 

F. AV. Robinson 20 

218 Agnes Sorel. By G. P. R. James 20 

219 Lady Clare ; or. The Blaster of 

the Forges. From the French 
of Georges Ohnet 10 

220 AVhich Loved Him Best? By 

Charlotte BI. Braeme, author 
of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

221 Cornin’ Thro’ the Rye. By Helen 

B. Blathers 20 

222 Sun^Iaid, The. By Bliss Grant 20 

223 Sailor’s Sweetheart, A. By AV. 

Clark Russell 20 

224 Arundel Blotto, The. By Blary 

Cecil Hay 20 

225 Giant’s Robe, The. By F. Anstey 20 

226 Friendship. By “Ouida ”..... 20 

227 Nancy. By Rhoda Broughton . 20 

228 Princess Napraxine. “ Ouida ” 20 

229 Blaid, AVife, or AA’^idow? By 

BIrs. Alexander 10 

230 Dorothy Forster. By Walter 

Besant 20 

231 Griffith Gaunt; or. Jealousy. 

By Charles Reade 20 

232 Love and Bloney; or, A Peril- 

ous Secret. By Chas. Reade . Id 

233 “ I Say No;” or, The Love-Let- 

ter Answered. By Wilkie Col- 
lins 20 

234 Barbara; or. Splendid Blisery. 

By Miss BI. E. Braddon 20 

235 “ It is Never Too Late to Blend.” 

By Charles Reade 20 

236 Which Shall It Be? By BIrs. 

Alexander 20 

237 Repented at Leisure. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“Dora Thorne” 20 

238 Pascarel. By “Ouida” 20 

239 Signa. By “Ouida” 20 

240 Called Back. By Hugh Conway 10 

241 Baby’s Grandmother, The. By 

U. B. AValford 10 


THE SEASIDE LIBHAKY— Pocket Edition. 


5 



243 Two Orphans, The. By D’En- 

nery 10 

243 Tom Burke of “Ours." By 
Charles Lever. First half... 20 

243 Tom Burke of “Ours." By 

Charles Lever. Second half. 20 

244 Great Mistake, A. By the author 

of “Cherry" 20 

245 Miss Tommy. By Miss Mulock 10 
. 246 Fatal Dower, A. By the Author 

of “ His Wedded Wife " .... 20 

247 Armourer’s Prentices, The. By 

Charlotte M. Yong:e 10 

248 House on the Marsh, The. By 

F. Warden 10 

249 “ Prince Charlie’s Daughter.” 

By Charlotte M. Braeme, au- 
thor of “ Dora Thorne " 10 


250 Sunshine and Roses ; or, Diana’s 
^ ^ Discipline. By Charlotte M. 

SV Braeme, author of “Dora 

JL Thorne" 

if 251 Daughter of the Stars, The, and 
other Tales. By Hugh Con- 
: w^ay. author of “ Called 

K Back " 10 

|E^52 Sinless Secret, A. By “ Rita " 10 
^253 Amazon, The. By Carl Vosmaer 10 
|J3‘>54 Wife’s Secret, The, and Fair but 


^ False. Charlotte M. Braeme, 
1^* author of “ Dora Thorne ".. . 10 
^255 Mystery; The. By Mrs. Henry 
^ Wood 20 

256 Mr. Smith ; A Part of His Life. 

ByL. B. Walford 20 

257 Beyond Recall. By Adeline Ser- 

geant 10 

258 Cousins. By L. B. Walford 20 

259 Bride of Monte-Cristo, The. A 

Sequel to “The Count of 
Monte-Cristo." By Alexan- 
der Dumas 10 

260 Proper Pride. By B. M. Croker 10 

261 Fair Maid, A. By F. W. Robin- 

son 20 

262 Count of Monte-Cristo, The. 

. By Alexander Dumas. Part I 30 

262 Count of Monte-Cristo, The. 

' By Alexander Dumas. Part II 30 

263 An Ishmaelite. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 20 

‘ 264 Pi^douche, a French Detective. 

By Fortune Du Boisgobey... 10 

265 Judith Shakespeare: Her Love 

Affairs and Other Advent- 
ures. By William Black 20 

266 Water-Babies, The. A Fairy 

Tale for a Land-Baby. By the 

Rev. Charles Kingsley 10 

207 Laurel Vane; or, The Girls’ 
Conspiracy. By Mrs. Alex. 
McVeigh Miller 20 

268 Lady Gay’s Pride; or, The Mi- 

ser’s Treasure. By Mrs. Alex. 
McVeigh Miller 20 

269 Lancaster's Choice. By Mrs. 

Alex. McVeigh Miller 20 

270 Wandering Jew, The. By Eu- 

gene Sue. Part I.. 30 




270 Wandering Jew, The. By Eu- 

gene Sue. Part II; 30 

271 Mysteries of Paris, The. By Eu- 

gene Sue. ParH 30 

271 Mysteries of Paris, The. By Eu- 

gene Sue. Part II 30 

272 Little Savage, The. By Captain 

Marry at 10 

273 Love and Mirage ; or. The Wait- 

ing on an Island. By M. 

Be tham-Ed wards 10 

274 Alice, Grand Duchess of Hesse, 

Princess of Great Britain and 
Ireland. Biographical Sketch 
and Letters 10 

275 Three Brides, The. By Char- 

lotte M. Yonge 10 

276 Under the Lilies and Roses. 

By Florence Marryat (Mrs. 
Francis Lean) 10 

277 Surgeon’s Daughters, The, by 

Mrs. Henry Wood. A Man of 
His Word, by W. E. Norris. . . 10 

278 For Life and Love. By Alison. 10 

279 Rattlin, the Reefer. By Captain 

Blarryat 20 

280 Omnia Vanitas. A Tale of So- 

ciety. By Mrs. Forrester — 10 

281 Squire’s Legacy, The. By Mary 

Cecil Hay 20 

282 Donal Grant. By George Mac- 

Donald 20 

963 Sin of a Lifetime, The. By 
Charlotte M. Bi*aeme, author 
of “ Dora Thorne ’’ 10 

284 Doris. By “ The Duchess ’’ — 10 

285 Gambler’s Wife, The 20 

286 Deldee; or. The Iron Hand. B}’ 

F. Warden 20 

287 At War With Herself. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“ Dora Thorne ’’ 10 

923 At War With Herself. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme. (Large type 
edition) 20 

288 From Gloom to Sunlight; or 

From Out the Gloom. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “ Dora Thorne ’’ 10 

955 From Gloom to Sunlight; or. 
From Out the Gloom. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme. (Large 
type edition) 20 

289 John Bull’s Neighbor in Her 

True Light. By a “Brutal 
Saxon" 10 

290 Nora’s Love Test. By Mary 

Cecil Hay 20 

291 Love’s Warfare. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of Dora 
Thorne" 10 

292 Golden Heart, A. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “Dora 
Thorne" 10 

293 Shadow’ of a Sin, The. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“ Dora Thorne " 10 


6 


THE SEASIDE LIBHARY— PocKi^T Edition. 




948 Shadow of a Sin, The. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme. (Large type 

edition) 20 

204 Hilda; or, The False Vow. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme 10 

294 Lady Hutton’s Ward. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme 10 

928 Hilda; or, The False’ Vow. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme. (Large 

type) 20 

928 Lady Hutton’s Ward. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme. (Large type) 20 

295 Woman’s War, A. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme 10 

952 Woman’s War, A. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme. (Large type 
edition) 20 

296 Rose in Thorns, A. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“Dora Thorne”., 10 

297 Hilary’s Folly; or. Her Mar- 

riage Vow. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “Dora 
Thorne” 10 

953 Hilary’s Folly; or. Her Mar- 

riage Vow. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme. (Large type edition) 20 

298 Mitchelhurst Place. By Marga- 

ret Veley 10 

299 Fatal Lilies, The. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne” 10 

300 A Gilded Sin, and A Bridge of 

Love. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of ” Dora 
Thorne ” 10 

301 Dark Days. By Hugh Conway 10 

302 Blatchford Bequest, The. By 

Hugh Conway , author of 
“Called Back” 10 

303 Ingledew House. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne” 10 

304 In Cupid’s Net. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne ” 10 

305 Dead Heart, A. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne” IG 

306 Golden Dawn, A. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne” 10 

307 Two Kisses. By Charlotte M. 

Braeme, author of ” Dora 
Thorne” 10 

308 Beyond Pardon. C. M. Braeme 20 

309 Pathfinder, The. By J. Feni- 

more Cooper 20 

310 Prairie, The. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

311 Two Years Before the Mast. 

By R. H. Dana, Jr 20 

312 Week in Killarney, A. By “ The 

Duchess ” — 10 

313 Lover’s Creed, The. By Mrs. 

Cashel-Hoey 20 

314 Peril. By Jessie Fothergill ... 20 
8l5 Mistletoe Bough, The. Edited 

by Miss 31. E. Braddon 20 


316 Sworn to Silence; or. Aline 

Rodney’s Secret. By Mrs. 
Alex. 3IcVeigh Miller 20 

317 By Mead and Stream. By Chas. 

Gibbon 20 

318 Pioneers, The ; or, The Sources 

of the Susquehanna. By J. 
Fenimore Cooper 20 

319 Face to Face : A Fact in Seven 

Fables. By R. E. Fraucillon. 10 

320 Bit of Human Nature, A. By 

David Christie Murray 10 

321 Prodigals, The: And Their In- 

heritance. By Mrs. Oliphant. 10 

322 Woman’s Love-Story, A. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme, author 
of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

323 Willful Maid, A. By Charlotte 

31. Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne” 20 

324 In Luck at Last. By Walter 

Besant 10 

325 Portent, The. By George Mac- 

donald 10 

326 Phantasies. A Faerie Romance 

for Men and W^omen. By 
George 3Iacdonald 10 

327 Raymond’s Atonement. (From 

the German of E. Werner.) 

By Christina Tyrrell 20 

328 Babiole, the Pretty Mhliner. 

(Translated from the French 
of Fortune Du Boisgobey.) 
First half 20 

328 Babiole, the Pretty Milliner. 

(Translated from the French 
of Fortune Du Boisgobey.) 
Second half 20 

329 Polish Jew, The. (Translated 

from the French by Caroline 
A. 3Ierighi.) By Erckmann- 
Chatrian 10 

330 3Iay Blossom ; or. Between Two 

Loves. By Margaret Lee 20 

331 Gerald. By Eleanor C. Price . . 20 

332 Judith Wynne. By author of 

“ Lady Lovelace ” 20 

333 Frank Fairlegh; or. Scenes 

From the Life of a Private 
Pupil. By Frank E. Smedley 20 

334 Marriage of Convenience, A. 

By Harriett Jay 10 

335 White Witch, The. A Novel. . . 20 

336 Philistia. By Cecil Power 20 

337 Memoirs and Resolutions of 

Adam Graeme of 3Iossgray, 
including some Chronicles of 
the Borough of Fendie. By 
Mrs. Oliphant 20 

338 Family Difficulty, The. By Sa- 

rah Doudney 10 

339 Mrs. Vereker’s Courier Maid. 

By Mrs. Alexander 10 

340 Under Which King? By Comp- 

ton Reade 20 

341 Madolin Rivers; or. The Little 

Beauty of Red Oak Seminary. 

By Laura Jean Libbey 20 

342 Baby, The. By “ The Duchess ” 10 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 




343 Talk of the Town, The. By 

James Payn 20 

344 “ Wearing: of the Green, The.” 

By Basil 20 

345 Madam. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 

346 Tumbledown Farm. By Alan 

Muir 10 

347 As Avon Flows. By Henry Scott 

Vince 20 

348 From Post to Finish. A Racing 

Romance. By Hawley Smart 20 

349 Two Admirals, The. A Tale of 

the Sea. By J. Fenimore 
Cooper 20 

350 Diana of the Crosswa 5 ^s. By 

George Meredith 10 

351 House on the Moor, The. By 

Mrs. Oliphant 20 

352 At Any Cost. By Edw. Garrett 10 

353 Black Dwarf, The. By Sir 

Walter Scott 20 

354 Lottery of Life, The. A Story 

of New York Twenty Years 
Ago. By John Brougham. .. 20 

355 That Terrible Man. By W. E. 

Norris 10 

356 Good Hater, A. By Frederick 

Boyle 20 

357 John. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 

358 Within the Clasp. By J. Ber- 

wick Harwood 20 

359 Water-Witch, The. By J. Feni- 

more Cooper 20 

360 Rooes of Sand. By R. E. Francil- 

lon 20 

361 Red Rover, The. A Tale of the 

Sea. By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

362 Bride of Lammermoor, The. 

By Sir Walter Scott 20 

363 Surgeon’s Daughter, The. By 

Sir Walter Scott 10 

364 Castle Dangerous. By Sir Wal- 

ter Scott 10 

365 George Christy; or. The Fort- 

unes of a Minstrel. By Tony 
Pastor 20 

366 Mysterious Hunter, The; or. 

The Man of Death. By Capt. 

L. C. Carleton 20 

367 Tie and Trick. By Hawley Smart 20 

368 Southern Star, The ; or, The Dia- 

mond Land. By Jules Verne 20 

369 MissBretherton. By Mrs. Hum- 

phry Ward 10 

370 Lucy Orof ton. By Mrs. Oliphant 10 

371 Margaret Maitland. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 20 

372 Phyllis’ Probation. By the au- 

thor of “ His Wedded Wife ”. 10 

373 Wing-and-Wiag. By J. Feni- 

more Cooper 20 

374 Dead Man’s Secret, The ; or, The 

Adventures of a Medical Stu- 
dent. By Dr. Jupiter Paeon. . 20 

375 Ride to Khiva, A. By Captain 

Fred Burnaby, of the Royal 
Horse Guards 20 


876 Crime of Christmas Day, The. 

By the author of “ My Ducats 
and My Daughter ” 10 

377 Magdalen Hepburn ; A Story of 

the Scottish Reformation. By 
Mrs. Oliphant 20 

378 Homeward Bound; or. The 

Chase. By J. F. Cooper 20 

379 Home as Found. (Sequel to 

“ Homeward Bound.”) By J. 
Fenimore Cooper 20 

380 Wyandotte; or. The Hutted 

Knoll. By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

381 Red Cardinal, The. By B'rances 

Elliot 10 

382 Three Sisters; or. Sketches of 

a Highly Original Family. 

By Elsa D’Esterre-Keeling. , . 10 

383 Introduced to Society. By Ham- 

ilton Aid6 10 

384 On Horseback Through Asia 

Minor. By Captain Fred Bur- 
naby 20 

385 Headsman, The; or. The Ab- 

baye des Vignerons. By J. 
Fenimore Cooper 20 

386 Led Astray; or, “La Petite 

Comtesse.” Octave Feuillet. 10 

387 Secret of the Cliffs, The. By 

Charlotte French 20 

388 Addie’s Husband ; or. Through 

Clouds to Sunshine. By the 
author of “ Love or Lands?”. 10 

389 Ichabod. A Portrait. By Bertha 

Thomas 10 

390 Mildred Trevanion. By “The 

Duchess ” 10 

391 Heart of Mid-Lothian, The. By 

Sir Walter Scott 20 

392 Peveril of the Peak. By Sir 

Walter Scott 20 

393 Pirate, The. By Sir Walter Scott 20 

394 Bravo, The. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

395 Archipelago on Fire, The. By 

Jules Verne. . .’ 10 

396 Robert Ord’s Atonement. By 

Rosa Nouchette Carey 20 

397 Lionel Lincoln ; or, The Leaguer 

of Boston. By J. Fenimore 
Cooper 20 

398 Matt; A Tale of a Caravan. 

By Robert Buchanan 10 

399 Miss Brown. By Vernon Lee. . 20 

400 Wept of Wish-Ton -Wish, The. 

By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

401 Waverley. By Sir Walter Scott 20 

402 Lilliesleaf ; or, Passages in the 

Life of Mrs. Margaret Mait- 
land of Sunnyside. By Mrs. 
Oliphant 20 

403 An English Squire. By C. R. 

Coleridge 20 

404 In Durance Vile, and Other 

Stories. By “ The Duchess ” 10 

405 My Friends and I. Edited by 

Julian Sturgis 10 

406 Merchant’s Clerk, The. By Sam- 

.uel Warren 10 


B 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 


407 Tylney Hall. Thomas Hood 20 


408 Lester’s Secret. By Mary Cecil 

Hay 20 

409 Roy’s Wife. By G. J. Whyte- 

Melville 20 

410 Old Lady Mary. By Mrs. Oli* 

phant 10 

411 Bitter Atonement, A. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“Dora Thorne” 20 

412 Some One Else. By B. M. Croker 20 

413 Afloat and Ashore. By J. Fen- 

imore Cooper 20 

414 Miles Wallingford. (Sequel to 

“ Afloat and Ashore.”) By J. 
Fenimore Cooper 20 

415 Ways of the Hour, The. By J. 

Fenimore Cooper 20 

416 Jack Tier ; or, The Florida Reef. 

By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

417 Fair Maid of Perth, The; or, 

St. Valentine’s Day. By Sir 
Walter Scott 20 

418 St. Ronan’s Well. Bj^ Sir Walter 

Scott 20 

419 Chainbearer, The; or, The Lit- 

tlepage Manuscripts. By J. 
Fenimore Cooper 20 

420 Batanstoe; or, The Littlepage 

IManuscripts. By J. Fenimore 
Cooper 20 

421 Redskins, The; or, Indian and 

In jin. Being the conclusion 
of the Littlepage Manuscripts. 

By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

422 Precaution. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper., 20 

423 Sea Lions, The; or, The Lost 

Sealers. By J. F. Cooper 20 

424 Mercedes of Castile; or, Tne 

Voyage to Cathay. By J. Fen- 
imore Cooper 20 

425 Oak-Openings, The; or, The 

Bee-Hunter. By J. Fenimore 
Cooper. 20 

426 Venus’s Doves. By Ida Ash- 

worth Taylor 20 


427 Remarkable History of Sir 

Thomas Upmore, Bart., M.P., 
The. Formerly known as 
“Tommy Upmore.” By R. 

D. Blackmore 20 

428 Z6ro; A Story of Monte-Carlo. 

By Mrs. Campbell-Praed 10 

429 Boulderstone; or. New Men and 

Old Populations. By W. Sime 10 

430 Bitter Reckoning, A. By the au- 

thor of “ By CJrooked Paths ” 10 

431 Monikins, The. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

432 Witch’s Head,' The. By H. 

Rider Haggard 20 

433 My Sister Kate. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne” 10 

434 W^yllard’s Weird. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 20 

435 Klytia: A Story of Heidelberg 

Castle. By George Tayloc. . . 20 


Stella. By Fanny Lewald 20 

Life and Adventures of Martin 
Ohuzzlewit. By Charles Dick- 
ens. First half 20 

Life and Adventures of Martin 
Chuzzlewit. By Charles Dick- 
ens. Second half 20 

Found Out. By Helen B. 

Mathers 10 

Great Expectations. Bj^ Charles 

Dickens. . 20 

Mrs, Lirriper’s Lodgings. By 

Charles Dickens 10 

Sea Change, A. By Flora L. 

Shaw 20 

Ranthorpe. By George Henry 

Lewes 20 

Bachelor of the Albany, The. . . 10 
Heart of Jane Warner, The. By 

Florence Marryat 20 

Shadow of a Crime, The. By 

Hall Caine 20 

Dame Durden. By “Rita”... 20 
American Notes. By Charles 

Dickens 20 

Pictures From Italy, and The 
Mudfog Papers, &c. By Chas. 

Dickens 20 

Peeress and Player. By Flor- 
ence Marryat ’. 20 

Godfrey Helstone. By Georgi- 

ana M. Craik. .- 20 

Market Harborough, and Inside 
the Bar. G. J, Whyte-Melville 20 
In the West Countrie. By May 

Croramelin 20 

Lottery Ticket, The. By F. Du 

Boisgobey 20 

Mystery of Edwin Drood, The. 

By Chas. Dickens 20 

Lazarus in London. By F. W. 

Robinson 20 

Sketches by Boz. Illustrative 
of Every-day Life and Every- 
day People. By Charles Dick- 
ens 20 

Russians at the Gates of Herat, 
The. By Charles Marvin, ... 10 
Week of Passion, A; or. The 
Dilemma of Mr. George Bar- 
ton the Younger. By Edward 

Jenkins S# 

Woman’s Temptation, A. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme. (Large 

type edition) 20 

Woman’s Temptation, A. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

Under a Shadow. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“ Dora Thorne ” 20 

His Wedded Wife. By author 

of “ A Fatal Dower ” 20 

Alice’s Adventures in Wonder- 
land. By Lewis Carroll. With 
forty - two illustrations by 

John Tenniel 20 

Redgauntlet. By Sir Walter 
Scott 20 


436 

437 

437 

438 

439 

440 

441 

442 

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451 

452 

453 

454 

455 

456 

457 

458 

459 

951 

460 

461 

462 

463 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 


0 


464 Newcomes, The. By William 
Makepeace Thackeray. Part 
I.... 20 


464 Newcomes, The. By WTlliam 


Makepeace Thackeray. Part 


466 Earl’s Atonement, The. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “Dora Thorne ”....: 20 

4G6 Between Two Loves. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“Dora Thorne’’ 20 

467 Struggle for a Ring, A. B.y Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“ Dora Thorne ’’ 20 

468 Fortunes, Good and Bad, of a 

Sewing-Girl, The. By Char- 
lotte M. Stanley •. .. 10 

469 Lady Darner’s Secret: or, A 

Guiding Star. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “Dora 
Thorne’’ 20 

470 Evelyn’s Folly. B 3 ’^ Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne” 20 

471 Thrown on the World. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“ Dora Thorne ” 20 

472 Wise Women of Inverness, 

The. ByWm. Black 10 

473 Lost Son, A. By .Mary Linskill. 10 

474 Serapis. By George Ebers 20 

475 Prima Donna’s Husband, The. 20 


4 <'6 Between Two Sins; or, Married 
in Haste. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “Dora 

9’horne ” 10 

477 Affinities. A Romance of To- 


day. By Mrs. Campbeli-Praed 10 
478 Diavola; or. Nobody’s Daugh- 


ter. By Miss M. E. Braddou. 
Part 1 20 

478 Diavola: or. Nobody’s Daugh- 

ter. By Miss M. E. Braddon. 
Part II 20 

479 Louisa. By Katharine S. Mac- 

quoid ■ 20 

480 Married in Haste. Edited by 

Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

481 House That Jack Built, The. 

By Alison 10 


482 Vagrant Wife, A. By F. Warden 20 

483 Betwixt My Love and Me. By 

the author of “A Golden Bar ” 10 

484 Although He Was a Lord, and 


Other Tales. Mrs. Forrester. 10 

485 Tinted Vapours. B^’^ J. Maclareu 

Cobban 10 

486 Dick’s Sweetheart. By “ The 

Duchess ” 20 

487 Put to the Test. Edited by 

Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

488 Joshua Haggard’s Daughter. 

By Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

489 Rupert Godwin. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 20 

490 Second Life, A. . By Mrs. Alex- 

ander 20 


491 Society in London. By a For- 

eign Resident 10 

492 Mie:iK)n ; or. Booties’ Baby. By 

J. S. Winter. Illustrated 10 

493 Colonel Enderby’s Wife. By 

Lucas Malet 20 

494 Maiden All Forlorn, A, and Bar- 

bara. By “ The Duchess ”... ^0 

495 Mount Royal. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 20 

496 Only a Woman. Edited by Miss 

M. E. Braddon 20 


497 Lady’s Mile, The. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

498 Only a Clod. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 20 

499 Cloven Foot, The. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 


600 Adrian Vidal. By W”. E. Norris 20 


501 Mr. Butler’s Ward. By F. Mabel 

Robinson 20 

502 Carriston's Gift. By Hugh 

Conway, author of “Called 
Back” 10 


503 Tinted Venus, The. By F. Anstey 10 

504 Curly: An Actor’s Story. By 

John Coleman. Illustrated. 10 

505 Society of London, The. By 

Count Paul Vasili 10 

506 Lady Lovelace. By the author 

of “Judith Wynne” 20 

507 Chronicles of the Canongate, 

and Other Stories. By Sir 
Walter Scott... 10 

508 Unholy Wish, The. By Mrs. 

HenrvWVood 10 

509 Nell Haffenden. By Tighe Hop- 

kins 20 

510 Mad Love, A. By the author of 

“Lover and Lord” 10 

511 Strange World, A. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

512 Watei-s of Hercules, The 20 

513 Helen Whitney’s Wedding, and 

Other Tales. By Mrs. Henry 
Wood : 10 

514 Mystery of Jessy Page, The, 

and Other Tales. By Mrs. 
Henry Wood 10 

515 Sir Jasper’s Tenant. By Miss 

M. E. Braddon 20 

516 Put Asunder; or. Lady Castle- 

maine’s Divorce. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“Dora Thorne” 20 

517 Passive Crime. A, and Other 

Stories. By “ The Duchess ” 10 

518 Hidden Sin, The. A Novel 20 

519 James Gordon’s Wife, A Novel 20 

520 She’s All the World to Me. By 

Hall Caine 10 

521 Entangled. By E. Fairfax 

Byrrne 20 

522 Zig-Zag, the Clown; or. The 

Steel Gauntlets. By F. Du 
Boisgobey 20 

523 Consequences of a Duel, The. 

Bv F. Du Boisgobey, ........ 20 


10 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY—Pocket Edition. 


Miss M. E. Braddon 

525 Paul Varg^as, and Other Stories. 

By Hugh Conway, author of 
“Called Back” 10 

526 Madame De Presnel. By E. 

Frances Poynter 20 

527 Days of My Life. The. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 20 

528 At His Gates. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 

529 Doctor’s Wife, The. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

530 Pair of Blue Eyes, A. By Thom- 

as Hardy 20 


531 Prime Minister, The. By An- 
thony Trollope. First Half.. 20 

531 Prime Minister, The. By An- 

thony Trollope. Second Half 20 

532 Arden Court. Barbara Graham 20 

533 Hazel Kirke. By Marie Walsh 20 


534 Jack. By Alphonse Daudet — 20 

535 Henrietta’s Wish; or, Domi- 

neering. By Charlotte M. 
Yonge 10 

536 Dissolving Views. By Mrs. An- 

drew Lang 10 

537 Piccadilly. Laurence Oliphant 10 

538 Fair Country Maid, A. By E. 

Fairfax Byrrne 20 

539 Silvermead. By Jean Middle- 

mas 20 

540 At a High Price. By E. Werner 20 

541 “ As it Fell Upon a Day,” by 

“The Duchess,” and Uncle 

Jack, by Walter Besant 10 

.542 Fenton’s Quest. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon : 20 

543 Family Affair, A. By Hugh 

Conway, author of “ Called 
Back” 20 

544 Cut by the County: or, Grace 

Darnel. By Miss M. E. Brad- 
don 10 

545 Vida’s Story. By author of 

“Guilty Without Crime” 10 

546 Mrs. Keith’s Crime 10 

547 Coquette’s Conquest, A. By 

Basil 20 

548 Fatal Marriage, A, and The 

Shadow in the Corner. By 
Miss M. E. Braddon 10 

549 Dudley Carleon ; or. The Broth- 

er’s Secret, and Geoi ge Caul- 
field’s Journey. By Miss M. E. 
Braddon.. 10 

550 Struck Down. By Hawley Smart 10 

551 Barbara Heathcote’s Trial. By 

Rosa N. Carey. 2 parts, each 20 

552 Hostages to Fortune. By Miss 

M. E. Braddon 20 

553 Birds of Prey. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 20 

554 Charlotte’s Inheritance. (A Se- 

quel to “ Birds of Prey.”) By 
Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

555 Cara Roma. By Miss Grant 20 

556 Prince of Darkness, A. By F. 

Warden 20 


To the Bitter End. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

Poverty Corner. By G. Manyille 

Fenn 20 

Taken at the Flood. By Miss 

M. E. Braddon 20 

Asphodel. By Miss M. E. Brad- 
don 20 

J ust As I Am ; or, A Living Lie. 

By Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

Lewis Arundel; or, The Rail- 
road of Life. By Frank E. 

Smedley 20 

Two Sides of the Shield, The. 

By Charlotte M. Yonge 20 

At Bay. By Mrs. Alexander. . . 10 
No Medium. By Annie Thomas 10 
Ro.yal Highlanders, The; or. 
The Black Watch in Egypt. 

By James Grant 20 

Dead Men’s Shoes. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

Perpetual Curate, The. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 20 

Harry Muir. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 
John Marchmont’s Legacy. By 

Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

Paul Carew’s Story. By Alice 

Corny ns Carr 10 

Healey. By Jessie Fothergill. 20 
Love’s Harvest. B. L. Farjeon 20 
Nabob, The: A Story of Paris- 
ian Life and Manners. By Al- 
phonse Daudet 20 

Finger of Fate, The. By Cap- 
tain Mayne Reid 20 

Her Martyrdom. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 20 

In Peril and Privation. By 
James Payn 10 


Mathias Sandorf. By Jules 

Verne. (Illustrated.) Parti. 10 
Mathias Sandorf. By Jules 

Verne. (Illustrated.) Part II 10 
Mathias Sandorf. By Jules 

Verne. (Illustrated.) Part III 10 
Flower of Doom, The, and 


Other Stories. By M. Betham- 

Ed wards 10 

Red Route, The. By William 

Si me 20 

Betrothed, The. (I Promessi 
Sposi,) Alessandro Manzoni. 20 
Lucia, Hugh and Another. By 

Mrs. J. H. Needed 20 

Victory Deane. By Cecil Griffith 20 

Mixed Motives 10 

Drawn Game, A. By Basil 20 

“ For Percival.” By Margaret 

Veley 20 

Parson o’ Dumford, The. By 

G. Manville Fenn 20 

Cherry. By the author of “A 

Great Mistake” 10 

Luck of the Darrells, The. By 

James Payn 20 

Courting of Mary Smith, The. 

By F. W. Robinson 20 


557 

558 

559 

560 

561 

562 

563 

564 

565 

566. 

567 

568 

569 

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571 

572 

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575 

576 

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578 

578 

578 

579 

580 

581 

582 

583 

584 

585 

586 

587 

588 

589 

590 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 


11 


591 Queen of Hearts, The. By Wil- 
kie Collins 20 

502 Strange Voyage, A. By W. 

Clark Russell 20 

593 Berna Boyle. By Mrs. J. H. 
Riddell 20 


594 Doctor Jacob. By Miss Betham- 


Ed wards 20 

595 North Country Maid, A. By 

Mrs. H. Lovett Cameron 20 

596 My Ducats and My Daughter. 

By the author of “ The Crime 
of Christmas Day” 20 

597 Haco the Dreamer. By William 

Sime 10 

598 Coriuna. By “Rita” 10 

599 Lancelot Ward, M.P. By George 

Temple 10 

600 Houp-La. By John Strange 

Winter. (Illustrated) 10 

601 Slings and Arrows, and other 

Stories. By Hugh Conway, 
author of “Called Back”... 10 

602 Camiola: A Girl With a Fortune. 

By Justin McCarthy 20 

603 Agnes. By Mrs. Oliphant. First 

Half 20 


603 Agues. By Mrs. Oliphant. Sec- 

ond Half 20 

604 Innocent: A Tale of Modern 

Life. By Mrs. Oliphant. First 
Half - 20 

604 Innocent: A Tale of Modern 

Life. By Mrs. Oliphant. Sec- 
ond Half 20 

605 Ombra. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 

606 Mrs. Hollyer. By Georgiana M. 

Craik ’ 20 


607 Self-Doomed. By B. L. Fai jeon 10 

608 For Lilias. By Rosa Noucliette 

Carey. In Two Parts, each . . 20 

609 Dark House, The : A Knot Un- 

raveled. By G. Manville Fenn 10 

610 Story of Dorothy Grape, The, 

and Other Tales. By Mrs. 
Henry Wood 10 

611 Babylon. By Cecil Power 20 

612 My Wife’s Niece. By the author 

of “Doctor Edith Romney 20 

613 Ghost’s Touch, The. By Wilkie 

, Collins 10 

614 No. 99. By Arthur Griffiths... 10 

615 Mary Anerley. By R. D. Black- 

more 20 

616 Sacred Nugget, The. By B. L. 

Farjeon 20 

617 Like Dian’s Kiss. By “ Rita ”. 20 

618 Mistletoe Bough, The. Christ- 

mas, 1885. Edited by Miss M. 


E. Braddon 20 

619 Joy; or, The Light of Cold- 

Home Ford. By May Crom- 
melin , 20 

620 Between the Heather and the 

Northern Sea. By M. Linskill 20 

621 Warden, The. By Anthony 

Trollope 10 

622 Harry Seathcote of Gangoil. By 

Anthony Trollope 10 


623 My Lady’s Money. By Wilkie 

Collins 10 

624 Primus in Indis. By M. J. Col- 

quhoun 10 

625 Erema; or. My Father’s Sin. 

By R. D. Blackmore 20 

626 Fair Mystery, A. By Charlotte 

M. Brae me, author of “ Dora 
Thorne ” 20 

627 White Heather. By Wm. Black 20 

628 Wedded Hands. By the author 

of “ My Lady’s Folly ” 20 

629 Cripps, the Carrier. By R. D. 

Blackmore 20 

630 Cradock Nowell. By R. D. 

Blackmore. First half 20 

630 Cradock Nowell. By R. D. 

Blackmore. Second half 20 

631 Christowell. By R. D. Blackmore 20 

632 Clara Vaughan. By R. D. Black- 

more 20 

633 Maid of Sker, The. By R. D. 

Blackmore. 1st half 20 

633 Maid of Sker, The; By R. D. 

Blackmore. 2d half 20 

634 Unforeseen, The. By Alice 

O’Hanlon 20 

635 Murder or Manslaughter? By 

Helen B. Mathers 10 

636 Alice Lorraine. By R. D. Black- 

more. 1st half 20 

636 Alice Ijorraine. By R. D. Black- 

more. 2d half 20 

637 What’s His Offence? By author 

of “ The Two Miss Flemings ” 20 

638 In Quarters with the 25th (The 

Black Horse) Dragoons. By 


J. S. Winter 10 

639 Othmar. “Ouida.” 2 parts, each 20 

640 Nuttie’s Father. By Charlotte 

M. Yonge 20 

641 Rabbi’s Spell, The. By Stuart 

C. Cumberland 10 

642 Britta. By George Temple 10 

643 Sketch-book of Geoffrey Cray- 

on, Gent, The. By Washing- 
ton Irving 20 

644 Girton Girl, A. By Mrs. Annie 

Edwards 20 

645 Mrs. Smith of Longmains. By 

Rhoda Broughton 10 

646 Master of the Mine, The. By 

Robert Buchanan 20 

647 Goblin Gold. By May Crom- 

melin 10 

648 Angel of the Beils, The. By F. 

Du Boisgobey 20 

649 Cradle and Spade. By William 

Sime 20 

650 Alice: or. The Mysteries. (A Se- 

quel to “ Ernest Maltravers.”) 

By Sir E. Bulwer Lytton 20 

651 “ Self or Bearer.” By Walter 

Besant 10 

652 Lady With the Rubies, The. By 

E. Marlitt 20 

653 Barren Title, A. T. W. Speight 10 
661 “ Us.” An Old-fashioned Story. 

By Mrs. Molesworth 10 


12 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 


655 Open Door, The. By Mrs. Oli- 

phaut 

656 Golden Flood, The. By R. E. 

Francillon and Wm. Senior.. 

657 Chi-istmas Angel. By B. L. Far- 

jeon 

658 History of a Week, The. By 

Mrs. L. B. Walford 

659 Waif of the “ Cynthia,” The. 

By Jules Verne 

660 Scottish Chiefs, The. By Miss 

Jane Porter. 1st half 

660 Scottish Chiefs, The. By Miss 

Jane Porter. 2d half 

661 Rainbow Gold. By David Chris- 

tie Murray 

662 Mystery of Allan Grale, The. By 

Isabella Fyvie Mayo 

663 Handy Andy. By Samuel Lover 

664 Ror}’' O'More. By Samuel Lover 

665 Dove in the Eagle’s Nest, The. 

By Charlotte M. Yonge. . ; — 

666 My Young Alcides. By Char- 

lotte M. Yonge 

667 Golden Lion of Granpere, The, 

By Anthony Trollope 

668 Half-Way. An Anglo-French 

Romance 

669 Philosophy of Whist, The. By 

William Pole 

670 Rose and the Ring, The. By 

W. M. Thackeray. Illustrated 

671 Don Gesualdo. By“Ouida.”.. 

672 InMaremma. By*‘Ouida.” 1st 

half . 

672 In Maremma. By “ Ouida.” 2d 

half 

673 Story of a Sin. By Helen B. 

Mathers 

674 First Person Singular. By Da- 

vid Christie Murray 

675 Mrs. Dymond. By Miss Thacke- 

ray..' 

676 Child’s History of England, A. 

By Charles Dickens 

677 Griselda. By the author of “ A 

Woman’s Love-Story ” 

678 Dorothy’s Venture. By Mary 

Cecil Hay 

679 Where Two Ways Meet. By 

Sarah Doudney 

680 Fast and Loose. By Arthur 

Griffiths 

681 Singer’s Story, A. By May 

Laffan 

682 In the Bliddle Watch. By W. 

Clark Russell 

683 Bachelor Vicar of Newforth, 

The. By Mrs. J. Harcourt-Roe 

684 Last Days at Apswich . 

6So England under Gladstone. 1880 

—1885. By Justin H. McCar- 
thy, M.P 

686 Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and 

Mr. Hyde. By Robert Louis 
Stevenson 

687 Country Gentleman, A. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 


688 Man of Honor, A. By John 

Strange Winter. Illustrated. 10 

689 Heir Presumptive, The. By 


Florence Marryat 20 

690 Far From the Madding Crowd. 

By Thomas Hardy 20 

691 Valentine Strange. By David 

Christie Murray 20 

692 Mikado, The. and other Comic 

Operas. "Written by W. S. 
Gilbert. Composed by Arthur 
Sullivan ‘ 20 

693 Felix Holt, the Radical. By 

George Eliot 20 

694 John Maidment. By Julian 

Sturgis 20 

695 Hearts: Queen, Knave, and 

Deuce. By David Christie 
Murray 20 

696 Thaddeus of Warsaw. By Miss 

Jane Porter 20 

697 Pretty Jailer, The. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. 1st half 20 

697 Pretty Jailer, The. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. 2d half 20 

698 Life’s Atonement, A. By David 

Christie Murray. 20 

699 Sculptor’s Daughter, The. By 

F. Du Boisgobey. 1st half. .. 20 

699 Sculptor’s Daughter, The. By 

F. Du Boisgobey. 2d half 20 

700 Ralph the Heir. By Anthony 

Trollope. First half 20 

700 Ralph the Heir. By Anthony 

Trollope. Second half 20 

701 Woman in White, The. Wilkie 

Collins. Illustrated. 1st half 20 

701 Woman in White, The. Wilkie 

Collins. Illustrated. 2d half 20 

702 Man and Wife. By Wilkie Col- 

lins. First half 20 

702 Man and Wife. By Wilkie Col- 

lins. Second half 20 

703 House Divided Against Itself, 

A. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 

704 Prince Otto. By R. L. Steven- 

son 10 

705 Woman I Loved, The, and the 

Woman Who Loved Ble. By 
Isa Blagden 10 

706 Crimson Stain, A. By Annie 

Bradshaw *. 10 


707 Silas Marner: The Weaver of 

Raveloe. By George Eliot. . . 10 

708 Ormond. By Maria Edgeworth 20 

709 Zenobia; or. The Fall of Pal- 

m.yra. By William Ware. 


First half 20 

709 Zenobia; or. The Fall of Pal- 

myra. By William Ware. 
Second half 10 

710 Greatest Heiress in England, 

The. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 

711 Cardinal Sin, A. By Hugh Con- 

way, author of “ Called 
Back” 20 

712 For Maimie's Sake. By Grant 

Allen 20 


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THE SEASIDE LIBRARY—Pocket Edition. 


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713 “ Cherry Ripe.” By Helen B. 

Mathers 20 

714 ’Twixt Love and Duty. By 

Ti^che Hopkins 20 

715 I Have Lived and Loved. By 

Mrs. Forrester 20 

716 Victor and Vanquished. By 

Mary Cecil Hay 20 

717 Beau Tancrede; or, the Mar- 

riage Verdict. By Alexander 
Dumas 20 

718 Unfairly Won. By Mrs. Power 

O’Donoghue 20 

719 Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage. 

By Lord Byron 10 

720 Paul Clifford. By Sir E. Buhver 

Lytton, Bart 20 

721 Dolores. By Mrs. Forrester. . . 20 

722 What’s IMine’s Mine. By George 

Macdonald 20 

723 Mauleverer’s Millions. By T. 

Wemyss Reid 20 

721 My Lord and My Lady. By 

Ml’S. Forrester 20 

725 My Ten Years’ Imprisonment. 

By Silvio Pellico 10 

726 My Hero. B.y Mrs. Forrester. . 20 

727 Fair Women. By Sirs. Forrester 20 
728' Janet’s Repentance. By George 

Eliot 10 

729 Mignori. By Mrs. Forrester... 20 

730 Autobiography of Benjamin 

Franklin, The 10 

731 Bayou Bride. The. By Mrs. 

Mary E. Bryan 20 

732 From Olympus to Hades. By 

Mrs. Forrester 20 

733 Lady Branksmere. By “The 

Duchess” 20 

734 Viva. By Mrs. Forrester 20 

7'35 Until the Day Breaks. By 

Emily Spender 20 

736 Roy and Viola. Mrs. Forrester 20 

737 Aunt Rachel. By David Christie 

Murray 10 

738 In the Golden Days. By Edna 

Lyall .' 20 

739 Caged Lion, The. By Charlotte 

M. Yonge 20 

740 Rhona. By Mrs. Forrester 20 

741 Heiress of Hilldrop, The; or, 

The Romance of a Young 
Girl. By Charlotte M. Braeme, 
author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 20 

742 Love and Life. By Cliarlotte 

M. Yonge 20 

743 Jack’s Courtship. By W. Clark 

Rus.'^ell. 1st half 20 

743 Jack's Courtship. By W. Clark 
Russell. 2d half 20 


744 Diana Carew ; or. For a Wom- 

an’s Sake. By Mrs. Forrester 20 

745 For Another’s Sin ; or, A Strug- 

gle for Love. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne ” 20 

746 Cavalry Life; or, Sketches and 

Stories in Barracks and Out. 

' By J. S. Winter 20 


747 Our Sensation Novel. Edited 

by Justin H. McCarthy, M.P. 10 

748 Hurrish: A Study. By the 

Hon. Emily Lawless 20 

749 Lord Vanecourt’s Daughter. By 

Mabel Collins 20 


750 An Old Story of My Farming 
Days. Fritz Reuter. 1st half 20 

750 An Old Story of My Farming 

Days. Fritz Reuter. 2d half 20 

751 Great Voyages and Great Navi- 

gators. Jules Verne. 1st half *0 

751 Great Voyages and Great Navi- 

gators. Jules Verne. 2d half 20 

752 Jackanapes, and Other Stories. 


_ By Juliana Horatio Ewing. . . 10 

753 King Solomon’s Mines. By H. 

Rider Haggard 20 

754 How to be Happy Though Mar- 

ried. By a Graduate in the 
University of Matrimony 20 

755 Margery Daw. A Novel 20 

756 Strange Adventures of Captain 

Dangerous, The. By George 
Augustus Sala 20 

757 Love’s Martyr. By Laurence 

Alma Tadema 10 

758 “Good-bye, Sweetheart!” By 

Rhoda Broughton 20 

759 In Shallow Waters. By Annie 

Armitt 20 

760 Aurelian ; or, Rome in the Third 

Century. By William Ware. 20 

761 Will Weatherhelm. By William 

H. G. Kingston 20 

762 Impressions of Theophrastus 

Such. By George Eliot 10 

763 Midshipman, The, Marmaduke 

IMerry. Wm. H. G. Kingston. 20 

764 Evil Genius, The. By Wilkie 

Collins 20 

765 Not Wisely, But I’oo Well. By 

Rhoda Broughton 20 


766 No. XIII. ; or, 9'he Story of the 

Lost Vestal. Emma Marshall 10 

767 Joan. By Rhoda Broughton. . 20 

768 Red as a Rose is She. By Rhoda 


Broughton 20 

769 Cometh Up as a Flower. By 

Rhoda Broughton 20 

770 Castle of Otranto, The. By 

Horace Walpole 10 

771 Mental Struggle, A. By “ The 

Duchess ” 20 

772 Gascoyne, the Sandal-Wood 

Trader. By R. M. Ballantyne 20 

773 Mark of Cain, The. By Andrew 

Lang 10 

774 Life and Travels of Mungo 

Park, The 10 

775 Three Clerks, The. By Anthony 

Trollope...- 20 

776 Pere Goriot. By H. De Balzac 20 

777 Voyages and Travels of Sir 

John Maundeville, Kt., The. . 10 

778 Society’s Verdict. By the au- 

thor of “ My Marriage ” 20 

779 Doom ! An Atlantic Episode. 

By Justin H. McCarthy, M.P. 10 


14 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 


780 Rare Pale Margaret. By the au- 

thor of “ What’s His Offence?” 20 

781 Secret Dispatch, The. By James 


Grant 10 

782 Closed Door, Tlie. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. 1st half 20 

782 Closed Door, The. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. 2d half 20 

783 Chantry House. By Charlotte 

M. Yonge 20 

784 Two Miss Flemings, The. By au- 

thor of ” What’s His Offence?” 20 

785 Haunted Chamber, The. By 

“ The Duchess ” 10 

786 Ethel Mildmay’s Follies. By 

author of ” Petite’s Romance ” 20 

787 Court Roj^al. A Story of Cross 

Currents. By S. Baring-Gould 20 

788 Absentee, The. An Irish Story. 

By Maria Edgeworth 20 

789 Through the Looking-Glass, 

and What Alice Found There. 

By Lewis Carroll. With fifty 
illustrations by John Tenniel. 20 


790 Chaplet of Pearls, The ; or. The 
White and Black Ribaiimonr,. 
Charlotte M. Yonge. 1st half 20 

790 Chaplet of Pearls, The ; or. The 

White and Black Ribaumont. 
Charlotte M. Yonge. 2d half 20 

791 Mayor of Casterbridge, The. By 


Thomas Hardy 20 

792 Set in Diamonds. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of ” Dora 
Thorne” 20 

793 Vivian Grey. By the Rt. Hon. 

Benjamin Disraeli, Earl of 
Beaconsfield. First half 20 

793 Vivian Grey. By the Rt. Hon. 

Benjamin Disraeli, Earl of 
Beaconsfield.' Second half,. . 20 

794 Beaton’s Bargain. By Mrs. Al- 

exander 20 

795 Sam’s Sweetheart. By Helen 

B. Mathers... 20 

796 In a Grass Countiy. By Mrs. 

H. Lovett Cameron 20 

797 Look Before You Leap. By 

Mrs. Alexander 20 

798 Fashion of this World, The. By 

^ Helen B. Mathers 10 

799 My Lady Green Sleeves. By 

Helen B. Mathers 20 


800 Hopes and Fears; or. Scenes 
from the Life of a Spinster. 
Charlotte M. Yonge. 1st half 20 

800 Hopes and Fears; or. Scenes 

from the Life of a Spinster. 
Charlotte M. Yonge. 2d half 20 

801 She Stoops to Conquer, and 


Oliver Goldsmith 10 

802 Stern Chase, A. By Mrs.Cashel- 

Hoey 20 

803 Major Frank. By A. L. G. Bos- 

boom-Toussaint 20 


804 Living or Dead. By Hugh Con- 
way, author of “Called Back ” 20 


Freres, The. By Mrs. Alex- 
ander. 1st half 20 

Freres, The. By Mrs. Alex- 
ander. 2d half 20 

Her Dearest Foe. By Mrs. Alex- 
ander. First half 20 

Her Dearest Foe. By Mrs. Alex- 
ander. Second half 20 

If Love Be Lovb. D. Cecil Gibbs 20 
King Arthur. Not a Love Story. 

By Miss Mulock 20 

Witness My Hand. By the au- 
thor of “ Lady Gwendolen’s 

Tryst” 10 

Secret of Her Life, The. By Ed- 
ward Jenkins 20 

Head Station, The. By IMrs. 

Campbell-Praed 20 

No Saint. By Adeline Sergeant 20 
Army Society. Life in a Garri- 
son Town. By John Strange 

Winter 10 

Heritage of Langdale, The. By 

Mrs. Alexander 20 

Ralph Wilton’s Weird. By Mrs. 

Alexander 10 

Rogues and Vagabonds. By 
George R. Sims, author of ' 

“’Ostler Joe” 20 

Stabbed in the Dark. By Mrs. 

E. Lynn Linton 10 

Pluck. By John Strange Winter 10 
Fallen Idol, A. By F. Anstey. . . 20 
Doris’s Fortune. By Florence 

Warden 20 

World Between Them, The. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “Dora Thorne.” 20 

Passion Flower, A. A Novel. .. 20 
Heir of the Ages, The. By James 

Payn 20 

Her Own Doing. W. E. Norris 10 
Master Passion, The. By Flor- 
ence Marry at 20 

Cynic Fortune. By D. Christie 

Murray 20 

Effie Ogilvie. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 
Prettiest Woman in Warsaw, 

The. By Mabel Collins 20 

Actor’s Ward, The. By the au- 
thor of “ A Fatal Dower ”... 20 
Bound by a Spell. Hugh Con- 
way, author of “Called Back” 20 
Pomegranate Seed. By the au- 
thor of “ The Two Miss Flem- 
ings,” etc 20 

Kidnapped. By Robert Louis 

Stevenson 20 

Ticket No. “9672.” By Jules 

Verne. First half 10 

Ticket No. “ 9672.” By Jules 

Verne. Second half 10 

Ballroom Repentance, A. By 

Mrs. Annie Edwards 20 

Vivian the Beauty. By Mrs. 

Annie Edwards. 20 

Point of Honor, A. By Mrs. An- ^ 
nie Edwards 20 


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THE SEASIDE LIBRARY—Pocket Edition. 


16 


837 Vagabond Heroine, A. By Mrs. 

Annie Edwards 10 

* 838 Ought We to Visit Her? By 

Mrs. Annie Edwards 20 

839 Leah: A Woman of Fashion. 

By Mrs. Annie Edwards 20 

840 One Thing Needful; or, Tiie 

Penalty of Fate. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

841 Jet: Her Face or Her Fortune? 

By Mrs. Annie Edwards 10 

842 Blue-Stocking, A. By Mrs. An- 

nie Edwards 10 

843 Archie Lovell. By Mrs. Annie 

Edwards 20 

844 Susan Fielding. By Mrs. Annie 

Edwards 20 

845 Philip Earnscliffe; or, The Mor- 

als of May Fair. By Mrs. 

Annie Edwards • 20 

840 Steven 'Hawrence. By Mrs. 
Annie Edwards. 1st half 20 

846 Steven Lawrence. By Mrs. 

Annie Edwards. 2d hklf 20 


847 Bad to Beat. By Hawley Smart 10 

848 My Friend Jim. By W. E. Norris 20 

849 Wicked Girl, A. Mary Cecil Hay 20 

850 Playwright’s Daughter, A. By 

Mrs. Annie Edwards 10 

851 Cry of Blood, The. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. First half 20 

851 Cry of Blood, The. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. Second half 20 

852 Under Five Lakes; or. The 

Cruise of the Destroyer.” 

By M. Quad 20 

853 True Magdalen, A. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
” Dora Thorne ” 20 

854 Woman’s Error, A. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“Dora Thorne” 20 

855 Dynamiter, The. By Robert 

Louis Stevenson and Fanny 
Van de Grift Stevenson 20 

856 New Arabian Nights* By Rob- 

ert Louis Stevenson ...” 20 

857 Kildee; or, The Sphinx of the 

Red House. By Mary E. 
Bryan. First half 20 

857 Kildee; or, The Sphinx of the 

Red House. By Mary E. 
Bryan. Second half 20 

858 Old Ma’m’selle’s Secret. By E. 

Marlitt 20 

859 Ottilie: An Eighteenth Century 

Idyl, and The Prince of the 100 
Soups. By Vernon Lee 20 

860 Her Lord and Master. By Flor- 

ence Marryat 20 

861 My Sister the Actress. By Flor- 

ence Marry at 20 

862 Ugly Barrington. By “ The 

Duchess.” 10 

863 “My Own Child.” By Florence 

Marryat 20 

864 “ No Intentions.” By Floren 'e 

Marryat - 20 


Written in Fire. By Florence 

Marryat 20 

Miss Harrington’s Husband; or. 
Spiders of Society. By Flor- 
ence Marryat 20 

Girls of F^versham, The. By 

Florence Marryat 20 

Petronel. By Florence Marryat 20 
Poison of Asps, The. By Flor- 
ence Marryat 10 

Out of His Reckoning. By Flor- 
ence Marryat 10 

Bachelor’s Blunder, A. By W. 

E. Norris. 20 

With Cupid’s Eyes. By Flor- 
ence Marryat 20 

Harvest of Wild Oats, A. By 


House Party, A. By “ Ouida”. 10 
Lady Valworth's Diamonds. By 

“The Duchess” 20 

Mignon’s, Secret. John Strange 

Winter 10 

Facing the Footlights. By Flor- 
ence Marryat 20 

Little Tu’penny. By S. Baring- 

Gould 10 

Touchstone of Peril, The. By 

R. E. Forrest 20 

Son of His Father, The. By 

Mrs. Oliphant 20 

Mohawks, in Two Parts, each 20 
Children of Gibeon. By Walter 

Besant 20 

Once Again. By Mrs. Forrester 20 
Voyage to the Cape, A. By W. 

Clark Russell 20 

Les Mis6rables. Victor Hugo. 

Parti 20 

Les Miserables. Victor Hugo. 

Partll 20 

Les Miserables. Victor Hugo. 

Part III 20 

Paston Carew, Millionaire and 
Miser. Mrs. E. Lynn Linton 20 
Modern Telemaehiis, A. By 

Charlotte M. Yonge 20 

Treasure Island. Robert Louis 

Stf*venson 10 

An Inland Voyage. By Robert 

Louis Stevenson 10 

Mistletoe Bough, The. Christ- 
mas, 1886. Edited by Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

Vera Nevill: or. Poor Wisdom’s 
Chance. By Mrs. H. Lovett 

Cameron 20 

That Winter Night; or, Love’s 
Victory. Robert Buchanan. . 10 
Love’s Conflict. By Florence 

Marryat. First half 20 

Love’s Conflict. By Florence 

Marryat. Second half 20 

Doctor Cupid. By Rhoda 

Broughton 20 

Star and a Heart, A. By Flor- 
ence Marryat 10 

Guilty River, The. By Wilkie 
Collins 20 


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896 


16 


THE SEASIDE LIBKAKY— Pocket Edition. 


897 Angre. By- Florence Marryat. . . 20 

898 Bulldog and Butterfly, and Julia 

and Her Romeo, by David 
Christie Murray, and Romeo 
and Juliet, by William Black. 20 

899 Little Stepson, A. By Florence 

Marryat 10 

900 Woman’s Wit, By. By Mrs. Al- 

exander 20 

901 Lucky Disappointment, A. By 

Florence Marryat 10 

902 Poor Gentleman, A. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 20 

903 Phyllida. By Florence Marryat 20 

904 Holy Rose, The. By Walter Be- 

sant 10 

905 Fair-Haired Alda, The. By Flor- 

ence Marry at 20 

906 World Went Very Well Then, 

The. By Walter Besant 20 

907 Bright Star of Life, The. By 

B. L, Farjeon 20 

908 Willful Young Woman, A 20 

909 Nine of Hearts, The. By B. L. 

Farjeon 20 

910 She: A History of Adventure. 

By H. Rider Haggard 20 

911 Golden Bells: A Peal in Seven 

Changes. By R. E. Francillon 20 

912 Pure Gold, By Mrs. H. Lovett 

Cameron. Two Parts, each 20 

913 Silent Shore, The. By John 

Bloundelle- Burton 20 

914 Joan Wentworth. By Katha- 

rine S. Macquoid 20 

915 That Other Person. By Mrs. 

Alfred Hunt. Two Parts, each 20 

916 Golden Hope, The. By W. Clark 

Russell. , 20 

917 Case of Reuben Malachi, The. 

By H. Sutherland Edwards.. 10 

918 Red Band, The. By F. Du Bois- 

gobey. First half 20 

918 Red Band, The, By F. Du Bois- 

gobey. Second half 20 

919 Locksley Hall Sixty Years Af- 

ter, etc. By Alfred, Lord 
Tennyson, P.L.. D.C.L 10 

920 Child of the Revolution, A. By 

the author of “ Mademoiselle 
Mori ” 20 

921 Late Miss Hollingford, The. 

By Rosa Mulholland 10 

922 Marjorie. By Charlotte M. 

Braeme, author of “Dora 

Thorne.” , 20 

287 At War With Herself. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of • 
“Dora Thorne” 10 

923 At War With Herself. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme. (Large type 
edition) 20 

924 ’Twixt Smile and Tear. Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“ Dora Thorne ” 20 

925 The Outsider. Hawley Smart. 20 

926 Springhaven. By R. D, Black- 

more. 1st and 2d half, each. 20 


927 Sweet Cymbeline. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“Dora Thorne” 20 

294 Hilda; or, The False Vow. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme 10 

928 Hilda; or, The False Vow, By 

Charlotte M. Braeme, author 
of “ Dora Thorne.” (Large 
type edition) 20 

929 The Belle of Lynn; or. The 

Miller’s Daughter. By Char- 
lotte M, Braeme, author of 
“Dora Thorne” 20 

930 Uncle Max. By Rosa Nouchette 

Carey. In Two Parts, each. . 20 

931 Lady Diana’s Pride. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“Dora Thorne” 20 

932 Queenie’s Whim. Rosa Nou- 

chette Carey. Two Parts.each 20 

933 A Hidden Terror. Mary Albert 20 
9-34 Wooed and Married. Rosa Nou- 
chette Carey. 2 parts, each.. 20 

935 Borderland. Jessie Fothergill. 20 

936 Nellie’s Memories. Rosa Nou- 

chette Carey, Two Parts,each 20 

937 Cashel B3U'on’s Profession. By 

George Bernard Shaw 20 

938 Cranford. By Mrs. Gaskell 20 

939 Why Not? Florence Marrj^at.. 20 

940 The ]\Ierry Men, and Other Tales 

and Fables. By Robert Louis 
Stevenson 20 

941 Jess. By H. Rider Haggard. .. 20 

942 Cash on Delivery. By F. Du 

Boisgobey 20 

943 Weavers and Weft; or, “ Love 

that Hath Us in His Net.” By 
Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

944 The Professor. By Charlotte 

Bront6 20 

945 The Trumpet-Major. Thomas 

Hardy 20 

946 The Dead Secret. By Wilkie 

Collins 20 

947 Publicans and Sinners; or, lai- 

cius Davm en. By Miss M. E. 
Braddon. First half 20 

947 Publicans and Sinners; or, Lu- 

cius Davoren. By Miss M. E. 
Braddon. Second half 20 

293 The Shadow of a Sin. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“ Dora Thorne ” 10 

948 The Shadow of a Sin. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“ Dora Thorne.” (Large type 
edition) 20 

949 Claribel’s Love Story; or. 

Love’s Hidden Depths. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “Dora Thorne” 20 

25 Mrs. Geoffrey. By “ The Duch- 
ess.” (Largo type edition). .. 20 

950 Mr.s, Geoffrey. “ The Duchess ” 10 
459 Woman’s Temptation, A. By 

Charlotte M, Braeme, author 
of “Dora Thorne.” (Large 
type edition) 20 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 


17 


961 Woman's Temptation, A. By- 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “ Dora Thorne 10 

5596 Woman’s War, A. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of ** Dora 
Thorne” 10 


962 Woman’s War, A. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne.” (Large type edition) 20 

297 Hilary’s Folly; or. Her Mar- 
riage Vow. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of ” Dora 
Thorne” 10 

963 Hilary’s Folly; or. Her Mar- 

riage Vow. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne.” (Large type edition) 20 


954 A Girl’s Heart. By the author 

of “Nobody’s Darling” 20 

288 From Gloom to Sunlight; or, 
From Out the Gloom. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 
of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 


955 From Gloom to Sunlight; or. 

From Out the Gloom. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 
of “Dora Thorne.” (Large 
type edition) 20 

956 Her Johnnie. By Violet Whyte 20 

957 The Woodlauders. By Thomas 

Hardy 20 

958 A Haunted Life; or. Her Terri- 

ble Sin. Charlotte M. Braeme, 
author of “ Dora Thorne ”.. . 20 


959 Dawn. By H. Rider Haggard. 20 


960 Elizabeth’s Fortune. By Bertha 

Thomas 20 

961 Wee Wifie. By Rosa Nouchette 

(jarey 20 

962 Sabina Zembra. By William 

Black. First half 20 

962 Sabina Zembra. By William 

Black. Second half 20 

963 Worth Winning. By Mrs. H. 

Lovett Cameron 20 

964 A Struggle for the Right; or. 

Tracking the Truth 20 


965 Periwinkle. By Arnold Gray. . 20 

966 He, by the author of “King 

Solomon’s Wives”; and A 
Siege Baby and Childhood’s 

Memories, by J. S. Winter 20 

2517 Repented at Leisure. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“ Dora Thorne.” (Large type 


edition) 20 

967 Repented at Leisure. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“Dora Thorne” 10 

968 Blossom and Fruit; or. Ma- 

dam e’s Ward. By the author 
of “ Wedded Hands ” 20 

969 The Mystery of Colde Fell ; or. 

Not Proven. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne” 20 


970 King Solomon’s W'ives; or, The 
Phantom Mines. By Hyder 


Ragged. (Illustrated) 20 

971 Garrison Gossip: Gathered in 

Blankhampton. By John 
Strange Winter 20 

972 Gold Elsie. By E. Marlitt 20 

973 The Squire’s Darling. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“Dora Thorne ” 20 

974 Strathmore; or. Wrought by 

His Own Hand. By “ Ouida.” 
First half 20 

974 Strathmore; or, Wrought by 

His Own Hand. By “ Ouida.” 
Second half 20 

975 A Dark Marriage Morn. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme, author 
of “Dora Thorne” 20 

976 Robur the Conqueror; or, A 

Trip Round the World in a 
Flying Machine. Jules Verne 20 

977 TheHaunted Hotel. By Wilkie 

Collins 20 

978 Her Second Love. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“ Dora Thorne ” 20 

979 The Count’s Secret. By Emile 

Gaboriau. Parti 20 

979 The Count’s Secret. By Emile 

Gaboriau. Part II 20 

980 To Call Her Mine. By Walter 

Besant 20 

981 Granville de Vigne ; or. Held in 

Bondage. By “Ouida.” 1st 
half 20 

981 Granville de Vigne; or. Held in 

Bondage. By “Ouida.” 2d 
half 20 

982 The Duke’s Secret. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“Dora Thorne” 20 

983 Uarda. A Romance of Ancient 

Egypt. By George Ebers 20 

984 Her Own Sister. By E. S. 

Williamson 20 


985 On Her Wedding Morn, and 

The Mystery of the Holly- 
Tree. Charlotte M. Braeme, 
author of “ Dora Thorne ”.. . . 20 

986 The Great Hesper. By Frank 

Barrett 20 

987 Brenda Yorke, and Upon the 

Waters. By Mar}’ Cecil Hay. 20 

988 The Shattered Idol, and Letty 

Leigh. Charlotte M. Braeme, 
author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 20 

989 Allan Quatermain. By H. Rider 


Haggard 20 

990 The Earl’s Error, and Arnold’s 

Promise. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “Dora 
Thorne” 20 

991 Mr. Midshipman EasJ^ By Cap- 

tain Marryat — 20 

992 Marrying and Giving in Mar- 

riage. By Mrs. Molesworth... 20 

993 Fighting the Air. By Florence 

Marryat 20 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY — Pocket Edition. 


IS ‘ 


994 A Penniless Orphan, By W. 

Heimburg: 20 

995 An Unnatural Bondaj^e, and 

That Beautiful Lady. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 
of “ Dora Thorne ” 20 


996 Idalia. By “ Ouida.” Ist half. 20 

996 Idalia. By “Ouida.” 2d half. 20 

997 Forging: the Fetters, and The 

Australian Aunt. By Mrs. 
Alexander 20 

998 Open, Sesame I By Florence 

Marryat 20 

999 The Second Wife. E. Marlitt. 20 
1000 Puck. By “ Ouida.” 1st half 20 

1000 Puck. By “ Ouida.” 2d half. 20 

1001 Lady Adelaide’s Oath; or. The 

Castle s Heir. By Mrs. Henry 


Wood 20 

1002 Marriage at a Venture. By 

Emile Gaboriau 20 

1003 Chandos. By “Ouida.” 1st 

half 20 

1003 Chandos. By “Ouida.” 2d 

half 20 

1004 Mad Dumaresq. By Florence 

Marryat 20 

1005 99 Dark Street. F.W. Kobinson 20 

1006 His Wife’s Judgment. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme, author 
of “ Dora Thorne ” 20 

1007 Miss Gascoigne. By Mrs. J, 

H. Riddell 20 

1008 A Thorn in Her Heart. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme, author 
of “Dora Thorne” 20 

1009 In an Evil Hour, and Other 

Stories. By “ The Duchess ” 20 

1010 Golden Gates. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne ” 20 


1011 Texar’s Vengeance; or, North 
Versus South. Jules Verne. 
Part 1 20 

1011 Texar’s Vengeance ; or. North 

Versus South. By Jules Verne 
Part II 20 

1012 A Nameless Sin. By Charlotte 

M, Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne ” 20 

1013 The Confessions of Gerald 

Estcourt. Florence Marryat. 20 

1014 A Mad Love. By Charlotte M. 

Braeme. author of “ Dora 
Thorne ” 20 

1015 A Thousand Francs Reward. 

By Emile Gaboriau 20 

1016 A Modern Circe. By “ The 

Duchess” 20 


1017 Twcotrin. TheStory of aWaif 
and Stray. “Ouida.” Ist half 20 

1017 Tricotrin. TheStory of a Waif 

and Stray. “Ouida.” 2d half 20 

1018 Two Marriages. By Miss Mu- 

lock 20 

1019 Major and Minor. By W. E. 

Norris. 1st half 20 

1019 Major and Minor. By W. E. 

Norris. 2(i half 20 


1020 Michael Strogoff ; or, The Cou- 

rier of the Czar. Jules Verne 20 

1021 The Heir to Ashley, and The 

Red -Court Farm. By Mrs. 
Henry Wood 20 

1022 Driven to Bay. By Florence 

Marryat 20 

1023 Next of Kin— Wanted. By M. 

Betham-Ed wards 20 

1024 Under the Storm; or. Stead- 

fast’s Charge. By Charlotte 
M. Yonge 20 

1025 Daisy’s Dilemma. By RIrs. H. 

Lovett Cameron 20 

1026 A Dark Inheritance. By Mary 

Cecil Hay 20 

1027 A Life’s Secret. By Mrs. Henry 

Wood 20 

1028 A Devout Lover; or, A Wasted 

Love. By Mrs. H. Lovett Cam- 
eron 20 

1029 Armadale, By Wilkie Collins. 

1st 20 

1029 Armadale. By Wilkie Coilins. 

2d half 20 

1030 The IMistress of Ibichstein. By 

Fr. Henkel 20 

1031 Irene's Vow. By Charlotte M. 

Braeme, author of “Dora 
Thorne ” 20 

1032 Mignon’s Husband. By John 

Strange Winter 20 

1033 Esther: A Story for Girls. By 

Rosa Nouchette Carey 20 

1034 The Silence of Dean Maitland. 

Bj’ Maxwell Gray 20 

1035 The Duchess. By “ The Duch- 

ess” 20 

1036 Like and Unlike. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

1037 Scheherazade: A London 

Night's Entertainment. By 
Florence Warden 20 

1038 Mistress and Maid. By Miss 

Mulock 20 

1039 Driver Dallas. By John Strange 

Winter 10 

1040 Clarissa’s Ordeal. By the au- 

thor of “A Great Mistake.” 
First half 20 

1040 Clarissa’s Ordeal. By the au- 

thor of “A Great Mistake,” 
Second half 20 

1041 Home Again. By George Mac- 

donald 20 

1042 Lady Grace. Mrs. Henry Wood 20 

1043 Faust. By Goethe 20 

1044 The Frozen Pirate. By W. 

Clark Russell 20 

1045 The 13th Hussars. By Emile 

Gaboriau 20 

1046 Jessie. By the a uthor of “ Ad- 

TX 1 1 r* I'v Q ^ OA 


1047 Marvel. By “The Duchess”.. 20 
1043 The W^reck of the “Grosvenor.” 

By W. Clark Russell 20 

1049 A Tale of Three I^ions, and On 
Going Back. H. Rider Haggard 20 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 


19 


1050 The Tour of the World in 80 

Days. By Jules Verne 20 

1051 The Misadventures of John 

Nicholson. By Robert Louis 
Stevenson 10 

1052 Signa’s Sweetheart. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“Dora Thorne” 20 

1053 Young Mrs. Jardine. By Miss 

Mulock 20 

1054 Mona’s Choice. By Mrs. Alex- 

ander 20 

1055 Katharine Regina. By Walter 

Besant 20 

1050 The Bride of the Nile. By 
George Ebers. 1st half 20 

1056 The Bride of the Nile. By 

George Ebers. 2d half 20 

1057 A Life Interest. By Mrs. Alex- 

ander 20 


1058 Masaniello ; or. The Fisherman 

of Naples. Alexander Dumas 20 

1059 Confessions of an English Opi- 

um-Eater, and The English 
Mail-Coach. By Thomas De 


Quincey 20 

1060 The Lady of the Lake. By Sir 

Walter Scott, Bart 20 

1061 A Queer Race : The Story of a 

Strange People. By William 
Westall. 20 

1062 The Deerslayer; or, The First 

War-Path. By J. Fenimore 
Cooper. First half .. 20 

1062 The Deerslayer; or, The First 

War-Path. By J. Fenimore 
Cooper. Second Half 20 

1063 Kenilworth. By Sir Walter 

Scott, Bart. First half 20 

1063 Kenilworth. By Sir Walter 

Scott, Bart. Second half 20 

1064 Only the Governess. By Rosa 

Nouchette Carey 20 

1065 Herr Paulus: His Rise, His 

Greatness, and His Fall. By 
Walter Besant 20 

1066 My Husband and I. By Count 

Lyof Tolstoi 10 

1067 Saint Michael. By E. Werner. 

First half 20 

1067 Saint Michael. By E. Werner. 

Second half 20 

1068 Vendetta! or, The Story of One 
Forgotten. By Marie Corelli. 20 

1069 Polikouchka. By Count Lyof 

. Tolstoi 10 

1070 A Life’s Mistake. By Mrs. H. 

Lovett Cameron 20 

1071 The Death of Ivan Iliitch. By 

Count Lyof Tolstoi 10 

1072 Only a Coral Girl. By Gertrude 

Forde 20 

1073 Two Generations. By Count 

Lyof Tolstoi 10 

1074 Stormy Waters. By Robert 

Buchanan 20 

1075 The Mystery of a Hansom Cab. ' 

By Fergus W. Hume 20 


1076 The Mystery of an Omnibus. 

By F. Du Boisgobey 20 

1077 The Nun’s Curse. B}’^ Mrs. J. 

H. Riddell 20 

1078 The Slaves of Paris. By Emile 

Gaboriau. First half 20 

1078 The Slaves of Paris. By Emile 

Gaboriau. Second half 20 

1079 Beautiful Jim: of the Blank- 

shire Regiment. By John 
Strange Winter 20 

1080 Bertha’s Secret. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. 1st half 20 

1080 Bertha’s Secret. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. 2d half 20 

1081 Too Curious. By Edw'ard J. 

Goodman 20 

1082 The Severed Hand. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. 1st half 20 

1082 The ^vered Hand. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. 2d half 20 

1083 The Little Old Man of the Bat- 

ignolles. By Emile Gaboriau 10 

1084 Chris. By W. E. Norris 20 

1085 The Matapan Affair. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. 1st half 20 

1085 The Matapan Affair. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. 2d half 20 

1086 Nora. By Carl Detlef 20 

1087 A Woman’s Face; or, A Lake- 

land Mystery. By F. Warden 20 

1088 The Old Age of Monsieur Le- 

coq. By F. Du Boisgobey. 1st 
half 20 

1088 The Old Age of Monsieur Le- 

coq. By F. Du Boisgobey. 2d 
half 20 

1089 Home Sounds. By E. Werner 20 

1090 The Cossacks. By Count Lyof 

Tolstoi 20 

1091 A Modern Cinderella. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme 10 

1092 A Glorious Gallop. By Mrs. 

Edward Kennard 20 

1093 In the Schillingscourt. By E. 

Marlitt 20 

1094 Homo Sum. By George Ebers. 20 

1095 The Legacy of Cain. By Wilkie 

Collins 20 

1096 The Strange Adventures of a 

House-Boat. William Black 20 

1097 The Burgomaster's Wife. By 

George Ebers 20 

1098 The Fatal 'J’hree. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

1099 The Lasses of Leverhouse. By 

Jessie Fothergill 20 

1100 Mr. Meeson’s Will. By H Rider 

Haggard 20 

1101 An Egyptian Princess. Vol. I. 

By George Ebers 20 

1101 An Egyptian Princess. Vol. II. 

By George Ebers 20 

1102 Young Mr. Barter’s Repent- 

ance. By David Christie Mur- 
ray 10 

1103 The Honorable Mrs. Vereker. 

By “The Duchess” 20 


20 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 


1104 The Heir of Linue. By Rob- 

ert Buchanan . . 20 

1105 Maiwa’s Revenge. By H. Rider 

Haggard 20 

1106 The Emperor. By George 

Ebers 20 

1107 The Passenger from Scotland 

Yard. By H. F, Wood 20 

1108 Sebastopol. By Count Lyof 

Tolstoi 20 

1109 Through the Long Nights. By 

Mrs. E. Lynn Linton. First 
half 20 

1109 Through the Long Nights. By 

Mrs. E. Lynn Linton. Sei ond 
half 20 

1110 The Silverado Squatters. By 

Robert Louis Stevenson 10 

1111 In the Counselor’s House. By 

E. Blarlitt 20 

1112 Only a Word. By George 

Ebers 20 

1113 The Bailiff’s Maid. By E. Mar- 

litt 20 

1114 The Sisters. By George Ebers. 20 

1115 The Countess Gisela. By E. 

Marlitt 20 

1116 Robert Elsmere. By Mrs. Hum- 

phry Ward. 1st half 20 

1116 Robert Elsmere. ByMrs.^Hum- 

phry Ward. 2d half 20 

1117 Princess Sarah. By John S. 

Winter 10 

1118 The Elect Lady. By George 

Macdonald 20 

1119 No Name. By AVilkie Collins. 

First half 20 

1119 No Name. By Wilkie Collins. 

Second half 20 

1120 The Story of an African Farm. 

By Ralph Iron (Olive Schrei- 
ner) 20 

1121 Booties’ Children. By John 

Strange Winter 10 

1122 Eve. By S. Baring-Gould 20 

1123 Under - Currents. By “ The 

Duchess” 20 

1124 Diana Barrington. By B. M. 

Croker 20. 

1125 The Mvsteiy of a Turkish Bath. 

By “Rita” 10 

1126 Gentleman and Courtier. By 

Florence Marryat 20 

1127 Madam Midas. By Fergus W. 

Hume 20 

1128 Cousin Pons. By Honor6 De 

so 

1129 The Flying Dutchman ; or, The 

Death Ship. By W. Clark 
Russell 20 

1130 The Owl-House. By E. Marlitt 20 

1131 Thelma. By Marie Corelli. 

First half 20 

1131 Thelma. By Marie Corelli. 

Second half 20 

1132 In Far Lochaber. By AVilliam 

Black 20 


1133 Our New Mistress; or, Changes 


at Brookfield Earl. By Char- 
lotte M. Yonge 20 

1134 Lord Elesrnere’s AVife. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme 20 

1135 Aunt Diana. By Rosa Nou- 

chette Carey 20 

1136 The Princess of the Moor. By 

E. Marlitt 20 

1137 Prince Charming. By the au- 
thor of “ A Great Mistake ” . . 20 

1138 A Recoiling Vengeance. By 

Frank Barrett 20 

1139 Tom Brown at Oxford. By 

Thomas Hughes. Vol. I 20 


1139 Tom Brown at Oxford. By 

Thomas Hughes. Vol. II 20 

1140 Colonel Quaritch, V. C. By H. 


Rider Haggard 20 

1141 The Rogue. By AV. E. Norris. 

First half 20 

1141 'J’he Rogue. By W. E. Norris. 

Second half 20 

1142 Ten Thousand a Year. By 

Samuel AA'arren. Parr 1 20 

1142 Ten Thousand a Year. By 

Samuel VA^arren. Part II 20 

1142 Ten Thousand a Year. By 

Samuel Warren, Part III... 20 

1143 The Inner House. By AA'alter 

1144 Rienzi. By Sir E. Bulwer Lyt- 

ton. 1st half 20 

1144 Rienzi. By Sir E. Bulwer Lyt- 

ton. 2d half 20 

1145 My Fellow Laborer, and The 

AAh'eck of the, “ Copeland.” 

By H. Rider Haggard 20 

1146 Rhoda Fleming. By George 

MerediUi. 1st half 20 

1146 Rhoda Fleming. By George 

Meredith. 2d lialf 20 

1147 Knight-Errant. ByEdnaLyall. 

1st half. 20 

1147 Knight-Errant. ByEdnaLyall. 

2d half 20 

1148 The Countess Eve. By J. H. 

Shorthouse 20 

1149 Donovan: A Modern English- 

man. By Edna Lyall. 1st half 20 


1149 Donovan: A Modern English- 

man. By Edna Lyall. 2d half 20 

1150 The Egoist. By George Mere- 


dith. 1st half 20 

1150 The Egoist. By George Mere- 

dith. 2d half 20 

1151 For Faith and Freedom. By 

AValter Besant 20 

1152 From the Earth to the Moon, 

By Jules Verne. Illustrated. 20 

1153 Round the Moon. By Jules 

Verne. Illustrated 20 

1154 A Judgment of God. By E. 

Werner 20 

1155 Lured Away; or. The Story of 

a AA'edding - Ring, and The 
Heiress of Arne. Bj’’ Char- 
lotte M. Braeme 20 


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WITH HANDSOME LITHO&EAPHED PAPER COVER. 

LATEST ISSUES: 


NO. PRICK. 

669 Pole on Whist 20 

432 THE WITCH’S HEAD. By 

H. Rider Hagr^ard 20 

1117 Princess Sarah. By John S. 

Winter IQ 

1118 The Elect Lady. By George 

Macdonald 20 

1119 No Name. By Wilkie Collins. 

First half 20 

1119 No Name. By Wilkie Collins. 

Second half 20 

1120 The Story of an African Farm. 

By Ralph Iron (Olive Schrei- 
ner) 20 

1121 Booties’ Children. By John 

Strange Winter 10 

1122 Eve. By S. Baring-Gould 20 

1123 Under - Currents. By “ The 

Duchess” 20 

1124 Diana Barrington, By B. M. 

Croker 20 

1125 TheMvstery of a Turkish Bath. 

By “Rita” 10 

1126 Gentleman and Courtier. By 

Florence Marryat 20 

1127 Madam Midas. By Fergus W. 

Hume 20 

1128 Cousin Pons. By Honor6 De 

Sb^Izs^c 20 

1129 The Flying Dutchman ; or, The 

Death Ship. By W. Clark 
Russell 20 

1130 The Owl-House. By E. Marlitt 20 

1131 Thelma. By Marie Corelli. 

First half 20 

1131 Thelma. By Marie Corelli. 

Second half 20 

1132 In Far Lochaber. By William 

Black 20 

1133 Our New Mistress; or, Changes 

at Brookfield Earl. By Char- 
lotte M. Yonge 20 

1134 Lord Elesmere’s Wife. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme 20 

1135 Aunt Diana. By Rosa Nou- 

chette Carey 20 

1136 The Princess of the Moor. By 

E. Marlitt 20 

1137 Prince Charming. By the au- 

thor of “ A Great Mistake . 20 

1138 A Recoiling Vengeance. By 

Frank Barrett 20 


1139 Tom Brown at Oxford. By 
Thomas Hughes. Vol. I 20 

1139 Tom Brown at Oxford. By 

Thomas Hughes. Vol. II.... 20 

1140 Colonel Quaritch, V. C. By H. 

Rider Haggard 20 

1141 The Rogue. By W. E. Norris. 

First half 20 

1141 The Rogue. By W. E. Norris. 

Second half 20 

1142 Ten Thousand a Year. By 

Samuel Warren. Part 1 20 

1142 Ten ^Thousand a Year. By 

Samuel Warren. Part II 20 

1142 Ten Thousand a Year. By 

Samuel Warren. Part III. . . 20 

1143 The Inner House. By Walter 

Besant 20 

1144 Rienzi. By Sir E. Bulwer Lyt- 

ton. 1st half 20 

1144 Rienzi. By Sir E. Bulwer Lyt- 

ton. 2d half 20 

1145 My Fellow Laborer, and The 

Wreck of the “ Copeland.” 

By H. Rider Haggard 20 

1146 Rhoda Fleming. By George 

Meredith. 1st half 20 

1146 Rhoda* Fleming. By George 

Meredith. 2d half 20 

1147 Knight-Errant. ByEdnaLyall. 

1st half 20 

1147 Knight-Errant. ByEdnaLyall. 

2d half 20 

1148 The Countess Eve. By J. H. 

Shorthouse 20 

1149 Donovan: A Modern English- 

man. By Edna Lyall. 1st half 20 

1149 Donovan : A Modern English- 

man. By Edna Lyall. 2d half 20 

1150 The Egoist. By (George Mere- 
dith. 1st half 20 

1150 The Egoist. By George Mere- 

dith. 2d half 20 

1151 For Faith and Freedom. By 

Walter Besant. 1st half 20 

1151 For Faith and Freedom. By 

Walter Besant. 2d half 20 

1154 A Judgment of God. By E. 

Werner...^ 20 

1156 A Witch of the Hills. By Flor- 
ence Warden 20 


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A NEW NOVEL ET THE AUTnOR OF 

“ TEE SILENCE OF DEAN MAT T LA NT)" 


Now Ready, in the January Number of 

THE NEW YORK FASHION BAZAR, 

A NEW STORY, ENTITLED 

"THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.” 

BY MAXWELL GRAY, 

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Letters, Letters to Relatives and Friends, Wedding and Reception Cards, 
Invitations to Entertainments, Letters Accepting and Declining Invi- 
tations, Letters of Introduction and Recommendation, Letters of 
Condolence and Duty, Widows’ and Widowers’ Letters, Love 
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For Faith and Freedom. 


BY 

V 


WALTER BESANT. 


SECOND HALF. 



NEW YORK: 

GEORGE MUNRO, PUBLISHER, 

17 TO 27 Vandewatbr Street. 


WALTER BESANT’S WORKS 


CONTAINED IN THE SEASIDE LIBRARY (POCKET EDITION): 


NO. 

97 All in a Garden Fair. 

137 Uncle Jack. 

140 A Glorious Fortune. 

146 Love Finds the Way, and 
Other Stories. By Besant 
and Bice. 

230 Dorothy Forster. 

324 In Luck at Last. 

541 Uncle Jack. 

651 “ Self or Bearer.’^ 

882 Children of Gibeon. 

904 The Holy Rose. 


NO. 

906 The W orld W ent V ery Well 
Then. 

980 To Call Her Mine. 

1055 Katharine Regina. 

1065 Herr Paulus: His Rise, His 
Greatness, and His Fall. 
1143 The Inner House. 

1151 For Faith and Freedom. 
1st half. 

1151 For Faith and Freedom. 
2d half. 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

I KKOW not whom I expected to find in consequence of 
Barnaby^s words, as we went up the dark and dirty stairs 
which led to the upper room. Eobin was not a prisoner. 
Why, then — but I know not what I thought, all being strange 
and dreadful. 

At the top of the stairs we found ourselves in a room of the 
same size as the lower chamber, but not so high, and darker, 
being a gloomy place indeed, insomuch that it was not for 
some minutes that one could plainly discern things. It was 
lighted by a low, long window, set very close with thick bars, 
the shutters thrown open, so that all the light and air possible 
to be admitted might come in. It had a great fire-place, but 
there was no fire burning, and the air of the room struck raw, 
though outside it was a warm and sunny day. The roof was 
supported, as in the room below, by means of thick square pil- 
lars, studded with great nails set close together, for what pur- 
pose I know not. Every part of the wood-work in the room 
was in the same way stuck full of nails. On the floor lay ‘half " 
a score of mattresses, the property of those who could afford to 
pay the warders an exorbitant fee for. the luxury. At Ilmin- 
ster, as, I am told, at Newgate, the chief prison of the coun- 
try,, the same custom obtains of exacting heavy fees from the 
poor wretches clapped into ward. It is, I suppose, no sin to 
rob the criminal, the debtor, the traitor, or the rebel. For 
those who had nothing to pay there were only a few bundles 
of straw, and on these were lying half a dozen wretches, whose 
white faces and glazed eyes showed that they would indeed 
cheat Tom the Hangman, though not in the way that Barnaby 
hoped. These were wounded either in the Sedgemoor fight or 
in their attempt to escape. 

My father lay on a pallet-bed. His face showed not the 
least change; his eyes were closed, and you would have thought 
him dead; and beside him, also on a pallet, sat, to my aston- 
ishment, none other than Sir Christopher himself. 

He rose and came to meet us, smiling sadly. 

“ Madame, he said, taking my mother ^s hand, “ we meet 
in a doleful place, and we are, indeed, in wretched plight. I 
can not bid you welcome; I can not say that I am glad to see 
you. There is nothing that I can say of comfort or of hope, 
except, which you know already, that we are always in the 
hands of the Lord. 


186 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


Sir Christopher/^ said my mother, it was kind and 
neighborly in you to come. But you were always his best 
friend. Look at his poor white face!^’ — she only thought 
upon her husband. You would think him dead! More 
than a fortnight he hath lain thus — motionless. I think he 
feels no pain. Husband, if thou canst hear me, make some 
sign — if it be but to open your eyes! Iso!^^ she cried. Day 
after day have I thus entreated him, and he makes no answer! 
He neither sees nor hears! Yet he doth not die; wherefore I 
think that he may yet recover speech and sit up again, and 
presently, perhaps, walk about, and address himself again unto 
his studies. ’^ 

She waited not for any answer, but knelt down beside him, 
and poured some drops of milk into the mouth of the sick 
man. Sir Christopher looked at her mournfully and shook 
his head. 

Then he turned to me and kissed me, without saying a 
word. 

“ Oh, sir!^^ I cried, “ how could yo ^ 



would be brought unto this place? 


heart have you come to our help?^^ 

“Nay, child, he replied, gravely, “ I came because I had 
no choice but to come. Like your father and your brother, 
Grace, I am a prisoner. 

“ You, sir? You a prisoner? Why, you were not with the 
duke.^^ 

“ That is most true. And yet a prisoner. Why, after the 
news of Sedgemoor fight I looked for nothing else. They tried 
to arrest Mr. Speke, but he has fied; they have locked up Mr. 
Prideaux, of Ford Abbey; Mr. Trenchard has retired across 
the seas. Why should they pass me over? Nay, there were 
abundant proofs of my zeal for the duke. My grandson and 
my grandnephew had joined the rebels. Your father and 
brother rode over to Lyme on my horses; with my grandson 
rode off a dozen lads of the village. What more could they 
want? Moreover, I am an old soldier of Lord Essex^s army; 
and, to finish, they found in the window-seat a copy of Mon- 
mouth^s declaration — which, indeed, I had forgotten, or I 
might have destroyed it.'^^ 

“Alas! alas!^^ I cried, wringing my hands, with tears. 
“ Your honor, too, a prisoner!^-^ 

Since the sergeant spoke to Barnaby about the interest of 
friends, I had been thinking that Sir Christopher, whose power 
and interest, I fondly thought, must be equal to those of any 
lord in the land, would interpose to save us all. And he was 


FOB FAITH AND FKEEDOM. 


187 


now a prisoner himself, involved in the common ruin! One 
who stands upon a bridge, and sees with terror the last sup- 
port carried away by the raging flood, feek such despair as fell 
upon my soul. 

Oh, sir,^"' I cried again. It is line upon line — woe upon 

woe!^^ 

He took my hand in his, and held it tenderly. 

My child, he said, ‘‘to an old man of seventy-five what 
doth it matter whether he die in his bed or whether he die 
upon a scaffold? Through the pains of death, as through a 
gate, we enter upon our rest.^^ 

“ It is dreadful! I cried again. “ I can not endure it!^^ 

“The shame and ignominy of this death, he said, “I 
shall, I trust, regard lightly. “We have struck a blow for 
freedom and for faith. Well; we have been suffered to fail. 
The time hath not yet come. Yet in the end others shall carry 
on the cause, and Eeligion shall prevail. Shall we murmur 
who have been God’s instruments?” 

“ Alas! alas!” I cried again. 

“ To me, sweet child, it is not terrible to contemplate my 
end. But it is sad to think of thee, and of thy grave and bit- 
ter loss. Hast thou heard news of Eobin and of Humphrey?” 

“ Oh, sir! — are they, also, in prison — they are here?” 

“ No; but I have news of them. I have a letter brought to 
me but yesterday. Eead, it my child — read it.” 

He pulled the letter out of his pocket and gave it to me. 
Then I read aloud, and thus it ran: 

“ Honoked Sir and Grandfather, — I am writing this 
letter from the Prison of Exeter, where, with Humphrey and 
about two hundred or more of our poor fellows, I am laid by 
the heels, and shall so continue until we shall all be tried. 

“ It is rumored that Lord Jeffreys will come down to try us, 
and we are assured by rumor that the king shows himself re- 
vengeful, and is determined that there shall be no mercy 
shown. After Sedgemoor fight they hanged, as you will have 
heard, many of the prisoners at Weston Zoyland, at Bridge- 
water, and at Taunton, without trial. If the king continue 
in this disposition, it is very certain that, though the common 
sort may be forgiven, the gentlemen and those who were offi- 
cers in the rebel army will certainly not escape. Therefore I 
have no hopes but to conclude my life upon the gallows — a 
thing which, I confess, I have never looked to do. I hope to 
meet my fate with courage and resignation. 

“ Humphrey is with me, and it is some comfort (though I 


188 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


know not why) that we shall stand or fall together; for if I 
was a captain in the army, he was a chirurgeon. That he 
was also a secret agent of the exiles, and that he stirred up the 
duke^s friends on his way from London to Sherborne, that they 
know not, or it would certainly go hard with him. What do I 
say? Since they will hang him, things can not very well go 
harder. 


When the fight was over, and the duke and Lord Grey 
fied, there was nothing left but to escape as best we might. 
I hope that some of our Bradford lads will make their way 
home in safety: they stood their ground and fought valiantly. 
Nay, if we had been able to arm all who volunteered and would 
have enlisted, and if our men had all shown such a spirit as 
your valiant lads of Bradford Orcas, then, I say, the enemy 
must have been cut to pieces. 

When I had no choice left but to run, I took the road to 
Bridgewater, intending to ride back to that place where, per- 
haps, our forces might be rallied. But this proved hopeless. 
There I found, however, Humphrey, and we resolved that the 
safest plan would be to ride by way of Taunton, leaving be- 
hind us the great body of the king^s army, and so escape to 
London 9 possible, where we should certainly find hiding- 
places in plenty until the pursuit should be at an end. Our 
plan was to travel by night, and along by-ways and bridle- 
paths, and that by night only, hiding by day in barns, linneys, 
and the like. We had money for the charges of our journey. 
Humphrey would travel as a physician returning to London 
from Bath as soon as we had gotten out of the insurgents^ 
country; I was to be his servant. Thus we arranged the mat- 
ter in our minds, and already I thought that we v^ere safe, and 
in hiding somewhere in London, or across the seas in the Low 
Countries again. 

Well, to make short my story, we got no further than 
Exeter, where we were betrayed by a rascal countryman who 
recognized us, caused us to be arrested, and swore to us. 
Thereupon we were clapped into jail, where we now lie. 

Hon^d, sir; Humphrey, I am sorry to write, is much cast 
down, not because he dreads death, which he doth not, any 
more than to lie upon his bed, but because he hath, he says, 
drawn so many to their ruin. He numbers me among those; 
though, indeed, it was none of his doing, but my own free-will, 
that I entered upon this business, which, contrary to reasonable 
expectation, hath turned out so ill. Wherefore, dear sir, since 
there is no one in the world whose opinion and counsel Hum- 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM, 189 

phrey so greatly considers as your own^ I pray you, of your 
goodness, send him some words of consolation and cheer. 

That will I, right readily, said Sir Christopher. At 
least the poor lad can not accuse himself of dragging me into 
the clink. 

I hear/^ continued Eobin^s letter, that my mother hath 
gone with Mr. Boscorel to London to learn if aught can be 
done for us. If she do not return before we are finished, bid 
her think kindly of Humphrey, and not to lay these things to 
his charge. As for my dear girl, my Grace, I hear nothing of 
her. Miss Blake, who led the maids when they gave the flags 
to the duke, is, I hear, clapped into prison. Grace is not 
spoken of. I am greatly perturbed in spirit concerning her, 
and I would gladly, if that might be compassed, have speech 
with her before I die. I fear she will grieve and weep; but 
not more than I myself at leaving her, poor maid! I hear, 
also, nothing concerning her father, who was red-hot for the 
cause, and therefore, I fear, will not be passed over or forgot- 
ten. Nor do I hear aught of Barnaby, who, I hope, hath es- 
caped on shipboard, as he said he should do if things went 
ajar. Where are they all? The roads are covered with rough 
men, and it is not fit for such as Grace and her mother to be 
traveling. ‘ I hope that they have returned in safety to Brad- 
ford Orcas, and that my old master. Doctor Eykin, hath for- 
gotten his zeal for the Protestant duke, and is already seated 
again among his books. If that is so, tell Grace, honored sir, 
that there is no hour of the day or night but I think of her 
continually; that the chief pang of my approaching fate is the 
thought that I shall leave her in sorrow, and that I can not 
say or do anything to stay her sorrow. Comfort her I can 
not, save with words which will oome better from the saintly 
lips of her father. I again pray thee to assure H6r aG| my 
faithful love. Tell her that the recollection of her sweet face 
and steadfast eyes fills me with so great a longing that I would 
fain die at once so as to bring nearer the moment when we 
shall be able to sit together in heaven. My life hath been 
sanctified, if I may say so in humility, by her presence in my 
heart, which drove away all common and unclean things. Of 
such strength is earthly love. Nay, I could not, I now per- 
ceive, be happy even with the joys of heaven if she were not 
by my side. Where is she, my heart, my love? Pray God, 
she is in safety. 

And now, sir, I have no more to say. The prison is a liot 
and reeking place; at night it is hard to bear the foulness and 
the stench of it. Humphrey says that we may shortly expect 


190 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


some jail fever or small-pox to break out among us^ in which 
case the work of the judges may be lightened. The good peo- 
ple of this ancient city are in no way afraid of the king^s vin- 
dictiveness, but send in of their bounty quantity of provisions — 
fruit, eggs, fresh meat, salted meat, ale, and cider — every day 
for the poor prisoners, which shows whic^h way their opinions 
do lean, even although the clergy are against us. Honored 
sir, I am sure and certain that the miscarriage of our enterprise 
was caused by the conduct of those who had us in hand. In a 
year or two there shall be seen (but not by us) another upris- 
ing, under another leader, with another end. 

So no more. I send to thee, dear and honored sir, my 
bounden duty and my grateful thanks for all that I owe to 
your tender care and affection. Pray my mother, for me, to 
mourn no more for me than is becoming to one of her piety 
and virtue. 

Alas! it is thinking upon her and upon my poor lost dear, 
that my heart is well-nigh torn in pieces. But (tell Hum- 
phrey) through no fault — no — through no fault of his. 

From thy dutiful and obedient grandson, E. C. 

I read this all through. Then I folded up the letter and 
returned it to Sir Christopher. As he took it the tears came 
into his dear and venerable eyes and rolled down his cheeks. 

My dear — my dear,^^ he said, ^Mt is hard to bear. Every 
one who is dear to thee will go; there is an end of all, unless 
some way of which we know nothing be opened unto us.^^ 

Why,^^ I said, if we were all dead and buried, and our 
souls together in heaven — 

Patience, my dear,^^ said the old man. 

must they all die — all? My heart will burst! Oh, 
sir, will not one suffice for all? Will they not take me and 
hang me, and let the rest go free?^^ 

Child (he took my hand between his own) God knows 
that if one life would suffice for all, it should be mine. Nay, 

I would willingly die ten times over to save thy Eobin for thee. 

He is not. dead yet, however. Nor is he sentenced. There : 

are so many involved that we may hope for a large measure of 
mercy. Nay, more. His mother hath gone to London, as he ; 

says in his letter, with my son-in-law, Philip Boscorel, to see if ^ 

aught can be done, even to the selling of my whole estate, to - 

procure the enlargement of the boys. I know not if anything ] 

can be done, but be assured Philip Boscorel will leave no stone ■ 

unturned.'’^ 


FOK FAITH AHD FREEDOM. 


191 


Oh! can money buy a pardon? I have two hundred gold 
pieces. They are Barnaby^s — 

Then^ my dear, they must be used to buy pardon for Bar- 
naby and thy father — though I doubt whether any pardon need 
be bought for one who is brought so low.'^^ 

Beside the bed my mother sat crouched, watching his white 
face, as she had done all day long in our hiding-place. I 
think she heeded nothing that went on around her, being 
wrapped in her hopes and prayers for the wounded man. 

Then Sir Christopher kissed me gently on the forehead. 

They say the king is unforgiving, my dear. Expect not, 
therefore, anything. Say to thyself every morning that all 
must die. . To know the worst brings with it something of 
consolation. Eobin must die, Humphrey must die, your 
brother Barnaby must die, your father — but he. is well-nigh 
dead already — and I myself, all must die upon the scaffold if 
we escape this noisome jail. In thinking this, remember who 
will be left. My dear, if thou art as a widow and yet a maiden, 
I charge thee that thou forget thine own private griefs, and 
minister to those who will have none but thee to help them. 
Live not for thyself, but to console and solace those who, like 
thyself bereaved, will need thy tender cares. 


CHAPTEE XXVII. 

BEFORE THE ASSIZE. 

Theh we sat down and waited. Day after day we went to 
the prison^ where my mother sat by my father, whose condi- 
tion never changed in the least, being always that of .one who 
slept, or, if his eyes were open, was unconscious, and, though 
he might utter a few words, had no command of his mind or 
of his speech. Wherefore we hoped that he suffered nothing. 

^Twas a musket-ball had struck,^^ the surgeon said, in his 
backbone between the shoulders, whereby his powers of motion 
and of thought were suspended. I know not whether it was 
attempted to remove the ball, or whether it was lodged there 
at all, because I am ignorant; and to me, whether he had been 
struck in the back or no, it was to my mind certain that the 
Lord had granted my father^s earnest prayer that he should 
again be permitted to deliver openly the message that was 
upon his soul; nay, had given him three weeks of continual 
and faithful preaching, the fruits of which, could we perceive 
them, should be abundant. That prayer granted, the Lord, 


192 


FOR FAITH AKD FREEDOM. 


I thought, was calling him to rest. Therefore I looked for no 
improvement. 

One other letter came from Exeter, with one for me, with 
which (because I could not leave my mother at such a time) I 
was forced to stay my soul, as the lover in the Canticle stays 
his soul, with apples. I have that letter still; it hath been 
with me always; it lay hung from my neck in the little 
leathern bag in which I carried the duke^s ring; I read it 
again and again, until I knew it by heart, yet still I read it 
again, because even to look at my lover ^s writing had in it 
something of comfort even when things were at their Worst, 
and Egyptian darkness lay upon my soul. But the letter I 
can not endure to copy out or suffer others to read it, because 
it was written for mine own eye, and none other^s. Oh! my 
love!^^ he said. Oh! my tender heart!^^ and then a hundred 
prayers for my happiness, and tears for my tears, and hopes 
for the future (which would be not the earthly life, but the 
future reserved by merciful Heaven for those who have been 
called and chosen). As for the sharp and painful passage by 
which we must travel from this world to the next, Eobin bade 
me take no thought' of that, but to think of him either as my 
lover walking with me beside the stream, or as a spirit waiting 
for me to join him in the heavenly choir. And so with so 
many farewells (the letter being written when they expected 
the judges to arrive and the assize to begin) as showed his 
tender love for me. No, I can not write down this letter for 
the eyes of all to read. There are things which must be kept 
hidden in our own hearts; and, without doubt, every woman to 
whom good fortune hath given a lover as Eobin, with a heart 
as fond and a pen as ready (though he could never, like 
Humphrey, write sweet verses), hath received an epistle or 
two like unto mine for the love and tenderness, but, I hope, 
without the sadness of impending death. 

It was four weeks after we were brought to Ilminster that 
the news came to us of the coming trials. There were five 
judges — but the world knows but of one, namely, George, 
Lord Jeffreys, Chief Justice of England — and now, indeed, we 
began to understand the true misery of our situation. For 
every one knew the character of the judge, who, though a 
young man still, was already the terror alike of prisoners, 
witnesses, and juries. It promised to be a black and bloody 
assize, indeed, since this man was to be the judge. 

The aspect of the prison by this time was changed. The 
songs and merriment, the horse-play and loud laughter by 
which the men had at first endeavored to keep up their hearts. 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


193 


were gone. The country lads pined and languished in confine- 
ment; their cheeks grew pale and their eyes heavy. Then the 
prison was so crowded that there was barely room for all to lie 
at night, and the yard was too small for all to walk therein by 
day. In the morning, though they opened all the shutters, 
the air was so foul that in going into it from the open, one felt 
sick and giddy, and was sometimes fain to run out and drink 
cold water. Oh! the terrible place for an old man such as Sir 
Christopher. Yet he endured without murmuring the foul- 
ness and the hardness, comforting the sick, still reproving 
blasphemies, and setting an example of cheerfulness. The 
wounded men all died, I believe, which, as the event proved, 
was lucky for them. It would have saved the rest such suffer- 
ing had they all died as well. And to think that this was only 
one of many prisons thus crowded with poor captives! At 
Wells, Philipps Norton, Shepton Mallet, Bath, Bridgewater, 
Taunton, Ilchester, Somerton, Langport, Bristol, and Exeter 
there was a like assemblage of poor wretches thus awaiting 
their trials. 

I said that there was now little singing. There was, how- 
ever, drinking enough, and more than enough. They drank 
to drown their sorrows, and to forget the horrid place in which 
they lay, and the future which awaited them. When they 
were drunk tliey would bellow some of their old songs, but the 
bawling of a drunkard will not communicate to his com- 
panions the same joy as the music of a merry heart. 

While we were expecting to hear that the judge had arrived 
at Salisbury, the fever broke out in the prison of Ilminster. 
At Wells they were afflicted with the small-pox, but at Ilmin- 
ster it was jail-fever which fell upon the poor prisoners. 
Everybody hath heard of this terrible disorder, which is com- 
. municated by those who have it to those who go among them 
— namely, to the warders and turnkeys, and even to the 
judges and the juries. On the first day after it broke out — 
which was with an extraordinary virulence — four poor men 
died and were buried the next morning. After this no day 
passed but there were funerals at the church-yard, and the 
mounds of their graves — the graves of these poor countrymen 
who thought to fight the battles of the Lord — stood side by 
side in a long row, growing continually longer. We — that is, 
good Mrs. Prior and myself — sat at the window and watched 
the funerals, praying for the safety of those we loved. 

So great was the fear of infection in the town that no one 
was henceforth allowed within the prison, nor were the warders 
allowed to come out of it. This was a sad order for me, be- 

7 


194 


FOR FAITH AKD FREEDOM. 


cause my mother chose to remain within the prison, finding a 
garret at the house of the chief constable, and I could no 
longer visit that good old man. Sir Christopher, whose only 
pleasure left had been to converse with me daily, and, as I 
now understand, by the refreshment the society of youth 
brings to age to lighten the tedium of his imprisonment. 

Henceforth, therefore, I went to the prison door every 
morning, and sent in my basket of provisions, but was not 
suffered to enter, and though I could have speech with my 
mother or with Barnaby, they were on one side the bars and 
I on the other. 

It was at this time that I made the acquaintance of Mr. 
George Penne. This creature — a villain, as I afterward dis- 
covered, of the deepest dye — was to external appearance a 
grave and sober merchant. He was dressed in brown cloth, 
and carried a gold-headed stick in his hand. He came to 
Ilminster about the end of August or the beginning of Sep- 
tember, and began to inquire particularly into the names and 
the circumstances of the prisoners, pretending (such was his 
craftiness) a great tenderness for their welfare. He did the 
same thing we heard afterward, wherever the Monmouth 
prisoners were confined. At Ilminster, the fever being in 
the jail, he was not permitted to venture within, but stood 
outside and asked of any who seemed to know%ho and what 
were the prisoners within, and what were their circumstances. 

He accosted me one morning when I was .standing at the 
wicket waiting for my basket to be taken in. 

Madame, he said, ^^you are doubtless a friend of some 
poor prisoner. Your father or your brother may unhappily 
be lying within. 

Now I was grown somewhat cautious by this time. Where- 
fore, fearing some kind of snare or trap, I replied, gravely, 
that such, indeed, might be the case. 

“Then, madame,^^ he said, speaking in a soft voice, and 
looking full of compassion, “ if that be so, suffer me> I pray 
you, to wish him a happy deliverance; and this, indeed, from 
the bottom of my heart. 

“ Sir,^^ I said, moved by the earnestness of his manner, “ I 
know not who you may be, but I thank you. Such a wish, I 
am sure, will not procure you the reward of a prison. Sir, I 
wish you a good-day. 

So he bowed and left me, and passed on. 

But next day I found him in the same place. And his eyes 
were more filled with compassion than before, and his voice 
was softer. 


POR FAITH AHH FREEDOM. 


195 


can not sleep, madame/^ he said, ‘‘for thinking of 
these poor prisoners; I hear that among them is none other 
than Sir Christopher Challis, a gentleman of great esteem and 
well-stricken in years. And there is also the pious and 
learned, but most unfortunate. Doctor Comfort Eykin, who 
rode with the army and preached daily, and is now, I hear, 
grievously wounded and bedridden. 

“ Sir,^^ I said, “Doctor Comfort Eykin is my father. It 
is most true that he is a prisoner, and that he is wounded. 

He heaved a deep sigh, and wiped a tear from his eyes. 

“ It is now certain,'’^ he said, “ that Lord Jeffreys will come 
down to conduct the trials. Nay, it is reported that he has 
already arrived at Salisbury, breathing fire and revenge, and 
that he hath with him four other judges and a troop of horse. 
What they will do with so many prisoners I know not. I fear 
that it will go hard with all, but, as happens in such cases, 
those who have money and know how to spend it may speedily 
get their liberty. 

“ How are they to spend it?^^ 

“ Why, madame, it is not indeed to be looked for that you 
should know. But when the time comes for the trial, should 
I, as will very likely, happen, be in the way, send for me, and 
whatever the sentence, I warrant we shall find a way to ^scape 
it — even if it be a sentence of death. Send for me — my name 
is George Penne, and I aniR well-known merchant of Bristol. 

It was then that Barnaby came to the other side of the 
wicket. We could talk, but could not touch each other. 

“All is well, Sis,^^ he said. “Dad is neither better nor 
worse, and Sir Christopher is hearty, though the prison is like 
the ^tween decks of a ship with Yellow Jack aboard — just as 
sweet and pleasant for the air, and just as merry for the crew. 

“ Barnaby, I said, “ the judges are now at Salisbury. 

“ Ay, ay; I thought they would have been there before. 
We shall be tried, they tell me, at Wells, which, it is thought, 
will be taken after other towns. So there is still a tidy length 
of rope. Sis, this continual smoking of tobacco to keep off 
infection doth keep a body dry. Cider will serve, but let it be 
a runlet at least. 

“ Pie called you ‘ Sister,^ madame,^ ^ said Mr. Penne, curi- 
ously. “ Have you brother as well as father in this iilace?’"^ 

“Alas! Sir, I have not only my father, my mother, and 
my brother in this place, but my father-in-law (as I hoped 
soon to call him); and in P]xeter Jail is my lover and his 
cousin. Oh, sir, if you mean honestly — 

“ Madame — he laid his hand upon his breast — “ I am all 


196 


FOR FAITH AKD FREEDOM. 


honesty. I have no other thought, I swear to you, than to 
save, if possible, the lives of these poor men.^^ 

He walked with me to my lodging, and I there told him not 
only concerning our own people, but also all that I knew of 
the prisoners in this jail — they were for the most part poor 
and humble men. He made notes in a book, which caused 
me some misgivings; but he assured me again and again that 
all he desired was to save their lives. And now I understand 
that he spoke the truth, indeed, but not the whole truth. 

Your brother, for instance,^^ he said. ‘‘ Oh, madame, 
^twere a thousand pities that so brave a young man, so stout 
withal, should be hanged, drawn, and quartered; and your 
lover at Exeter, doubtless a tall and proper youth; and the 
other whom you have named. Doctor Humphrey Ohallis; and 
your father-in-law (as I hope he will be). Sir Christopher; and 
your own father. Why, madame,^^ he grew quite warm upon 
it, if you will but furnish some honest merchant — I say not 
myself, because I know not if you would trust me — but some 
honest merchant with the necessary moneys, I will engage that 
they shall all be saved from hanging. To be sure, these are all 
captains and officers, and to get their absolute pardon will be 
a great matter, perhaps above your means. Yet Sir Christo- 
pher hath a good estate, I am told. 

This George Penne was, it is true, a Bristol merchant, en- 
gaged in the West India trade; that is to say, he bought sugar 
and tobacco, and had shares in ships which sailed to and from 
Bristol and the West Indies, and sometimes made voyages to 
the Guinea coast for negroes. But, in common with many 
Bristol merchants, he had another trade, and a very profitable 
trade it is, namely, what is called kidnapping; that is, buying 
or otherwise securing criminals who have been pardoned or 
reprieved on condition of going to the plantations. They sell 
these wretches for a term of years to the planters, and make a 
great profit by the transaction. And foreseeing that there 
would presently be a rare abundance of such prisoners, the 
honest Mr. George Penne was going from prison to prison 
finding out what persons of substance there were who would 
pay for their sentence to be thus mitigated. In the event, 
though things were not ordered exactly as he could have 
wished, this worthy man (his true worth you shall presently 
learn) made a pretty penny, as the saying is, out of the prison- 
ers. What he made out of us, and by what lies, you shall 
learn; but, by ill fortune, he got not the fingering of the great 
sums which he hoped of us. 

And now the news — from Winchester first and from Dor- 


FOK FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


197 


Chester afterward — filled the hearts of all with a dismay which 
is beyond all power of words to tell. For if an ancient lady of 
good repute (though the widow of a regicide), such a woman 
as Lady Lisle, seventy years of age, could be condemned to be 
burned — and was, in fact, beheaded — ^for no greater offense 
than harboring two rebels, herself ignorant of who they were 
or whence they came, what could any hope who had actually 
borne arms? And again at Dorchester thirty who pleaded not 
guilty were found guilty and condemned to be hanged, and 
nearly three hundred who pleaded guilty were sentenced to be 
hanged at the same time. It was not an idle threat, intended 
to terrify the rest, because thirteen of the number were exe- 
cuted on the following Monday, and eighty afterward. Among 
those who were first hanged were many whom we knew. The 
aged and pious Mr. Sampson Larke, the Baptist Minister of 
Lynn, for instance, was one; Colonel Holmes (whom the king 
had actually pardoned) was another, and young Mr. Hewling, 
whose case was like that of Eobin. This terrible news caused 
great despondency and choking in the prison, where also the 
fever daily carried off one or two. 

Oh! my poor heart fell, and I almost lost the power of 
prayer, when I heard that from Dorchester the judge was 
riding in great state, driving his prisoners before him to 
Exeter, where there were two hundred waiting their trial. 
And among them Eobin — my Eobin! 


OHAPTEE XXVIII. 

BENJAMIN. 

It was the evening of September the sixteenth, about nine 
of the clock. I was sitting alone in my lodging. Down-stairs 
I heard the voice of the poor widow, Mrs. Prior, who had re- 
ceived us. She was praying aloud with some godly friends for 
the safety of her sons. These young men, as I have said, were 
never more heard of, and were therefore already, doubtless, 
past praying for. I, who ought to have been praying with 
them, held Eobin^s last letter in my hands. I knew it by 
heart, but I must still be reading it again and again, thinking 
it was his voice which was indeed speaking to me, trying to 
feel his presence near me, to hear his breath, to see his very 
eyes. In the night, waking or sleeping, I still would hear him 
calling to me aloud. My heart! my life! my love!^^ he 
would cry. I heard him, I say, quite plainly. By special 
mercy and grace this power was accorded to me; because I 


198 


FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. 


have no doubt that in his mind, while lying in his noisome 
prison, he did turn his thoughts, yea, and the yearnings of his 
fond heart, to the maid he loved. But now the merciless -• 
judge who had sentenced three hundred men to one common 
doom— three hundred men! — was such a sentence ever known? 
—had left Dorchester, and was already, perhaps, at Exeter. ; 
Oh! — perhaps Eobin had by this time stood his trial; what v 
place was left for pra3^er? For if the poor ignorant clowns 
were condemned to death, how much more the gentlemen, the 
officers of Monmouth^s army! Perhaps he was already exe- . 
cuted — my lover, my boy, my Eobin! — taken out and hanged, 
and now a cold and senseless corpse! Then the wailings and 
prayers of the poor woman below, added to the distraction of ( 
these thoughts, made me feel as if I was indeed losing my 
senses. At this time it was blow upon blow — line upon line. 

The sky was black — the heavens were deaf. Is there — can. 
there be — a more miserable thing than to feel that the very 
heavens are deaf? The mercy of the Lord — His kindly 
hearkening to our cries and prayers — these we believe as we 
look for the light of day and the warmth of the sun. Nay, 
this belief is the very breath of our life, so that there is none 
but the most hardened and abandoned sinner who doth not j 
still feel that he hath in the Lord a Father as well as a Judge. 

To lose that belief Twere better to be a lump of senseless clay. .• 
The greatest misery of the lost soul, even greater than his j 
continual torment of fire, and his never-ending thirst, and the 
gnawing of remorse, must be to feel that the Heavens are deaf 
to his prayers — deaf forever and forever! 

At this time my prayers were alb for safety. Safety, good 
Lord! give them safety! Save them from the executioner! 
Give them safety !^^ Thus, as Barnaby said, the shipwrecked 
mariner clinging to the mast asks not for a green, pleasant, 
and fertile shore, but for land — only for land. I sat there 
musing sadly, the Bible on the table and a lighted candle. I 
read not in the Bible, but listened to the wailing of the poor 
soul below, and looked at the church-yard without, the moon- 
light falling upon the fresh mounds which covered the graves 
of the poor dead prisoners. Suddenly I heard a voice — a loud 
and harsh voice — and footsteps. I kne.w both faotsteps and 
voice, and I sprung to my feet trembling, because I was certain 
that some new disaster had befallen us. 

Then the steps mounted the stairs: the door was open- 
ed, and Benjamin — none other than Benjamin — appear- 
ed. What did he here? He was so big, with so red 
a face, that his presence seemed to fill the room. And 


FOR FAITH AKD FREEDOM. 


199 


with him — what did this mean? — came madame herself, 
whom I thought to have been at Exeter. Alas! her eyes were 
red with weeping; her cheeks were thin and wasted with 
sorrow; her lips were trembling. 

Grace/’ she cried, holding out her hands, cliild, these 
terrible things are done and yet we live! Alas! we live I Are 
our hearts made of stone that we still live? As for me, I can 
not die, though I lose all — all — all!” 

“ Dear madame, what hath happened? More misery! More 
disaster! Oh, tell me! — tell me!’ 

“Oh! my dear, they have been tried — ^they have been tried, 
and they are condemned to die— both Robin — my son Robin — 
and with him Humphrey, who dragged him into the business, 
and alone ought to suffer for both. But there is now no justice 
in the land. No — no more justice can be had. Else Hum- 
phrey should have suffered for all.” 

There was something strange in her eyes; she did not look 
like a mother robbed of her children; she gazed upon me as if 
there was something else upon her mind. As if the condem- 
nation of her son was not enough! 

“ Robin will be hanged,” she went on. “ He hath been 
i the only comfort of my life since my husband was taken from 
me, when he was left an infant in my arms. Robin will be 
hanged like any common gypsy caught stealing a sheep. He 
will be hanged, and drawn and quartered, and those goodly 
i limbs of his will be stuck upon poles for all to see!” 

Truly I looked for nothing less. Barnaby bade me look for 
nothing less than this; but at the news I fell into a swoon. 
So one who knoweth beforehand that he is to feel the surgeon’s 
knife, and thinks to endure the agony without a cry, is faiii to 
shriek and scream when the moment comes. 

When 1 recovered I was sitting at the open window^ madame 
applying a wet cloth to my forehead. 

“ Have no fear,” Benjamin was saying. “ She will do what 
you command her, so only that he may go free. ” 

“ Is there no way but that?” she asked. 

“ None!” And then he swore a great oath. 

My eyes being open and my sense returned, I perceived that 
Mrs. Prior was also in the room. And I wondered (in such 
moments the mind finds relief in trifles) that Benjamin’s face 
should have grown so red and his cheeks so fat. 

“Thou hast been in a swoon, my dear,” said madame. 
“ But ’tis past.” 

Why is Benjamin here?” I asked. 



200 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


He looked at madame, who cast down her eyes^ I knew not 
why. 

^‘Benjamin is now our only friend/^ she replied, without 
looking up. It is out of his kindness — yes, his kindness — of 
heart that he hath come.^^ 

I do not understand. If Robin is to die, what kindness 
can he show?” 

“Tell her, Benjamin,” said madame — “tell her of the 
trials at Exeter.” 


“ His lordship came to Exeter,” Benjamin began, “ on the 
evening of September the thirteenth, escorted by many country 
gentlemen and a troop of horse. I had the honor of riding 
with him. The trials began the day before yesterday, the 
fourteenth.” 

“ Pray, good sir,” asked the poor woman who had lost her 
son, “ did you observe my boy among the prisoners?” 

“ How the devil should I know your boy?” he replied, turn- 
ing upon her roughly, so that she asked no more questions. 
“If they were rebels, they deserve hanging.” Here she 
shrieked aloud, and fled the room. “ The trials began with 
two fellows who pleaded ‘ Not guilty,^ but were quickly proved 
to have been in arms, and were condemned to death, one of 
them being sent out to instant execution. The rest who were 
brought up that day — among whom were Robin and Hum- 
phrey — pleaded ‘ Guilty,^ being partly terrifled and partly per- 
suaded that it was their only chance of escape. So they too 
were condemned^^ — two hundred and forty in all — every man 
Jack of them, to be hanged, drawn, -and quartered, and their 
limbs to be afterward stuck on poles for the greater terror of 
evil-doers.” He said these words with such a fire in his eyes, 
and in such a dreadful threatening voice, as made me tremble. 
“ Then they were all taken back to jail, where they will lie 
until the day of execution, and may the Lord have mercy upon 
their souls!” 

The terrible Judge Jeffreys himself could not look more 
terrible than Benjamin when he uttered the prayer with which 
a sentence to death is concluded. 


“ Benjamin, were you in the court to see and hear the con- 
demnation of your own cousins?” 

“ I was. I sat in the body of the court, in the place re- 
served for counsel.” 

“ Could you say nothing that would help them?” 

“ Nothing. Not a word from any one could help them. 
Consider — one of them was an officer, and one a surgeon, in 




FOK FAITH AND FREEDOM. 201 

the army. The ignorant rustics whom they led may some of 
them escape^ but the officers can look for no mercy. 

“ Madame/'' I cried, I must see Eobin before he dies; 
though, God knows, there are those here who want my services 
daily. Yet I must see Eobin. He will not die easy unless he 
sees me and kisses me once."^ 

Madame made no reply. 

For a week,^^ said Benjamin, “ they are safe. I do not 
think they will be executed for a week, at least. But it is not 
wise to reckon on a reprieve even for an hour; the judge may 
at any time order their execution. 

I will go to-morrow."'^ 

That will be seen,^^ said Benjamin. 

‘^^My dear,^^ said madame, my nephew Benjamin is a 
friend of the judge. Lord Jeffreys/^ 

Say rather a follower and admirer of that great, learned, 
and religious man. One who is yet but a member of the 
Outer Bar must not assume the style and title of friend to a 
man whose next step must be the woolsack.-'^ 

Heavens! He called the inhum'an wretch who had sentenced 
an innocent old woman of seventy to be burned alive, and five 
hundred persons to be hanged, and one knows not how many 
to be inhumanly fiogged, great and religious! 

‘^If interest can save any,^’ madame said, softly, Benja- 
min can command that interest, and he is on the side of 
mercy, especially where his cousins are concerned. 

I now observed that madame, who had not formerly been 
wont to regard her nephew with much affection, now observed 
toward him the greatest respect and submission. 

Madame,^" he replied, ^^you know the goodness of my 
heart. What man can do shall be done by me, not only for 
Eobin, but -for the others who are involved with him in com- 
mon ruin. But there are conditions with which I have taken 
pains to acquaint yon/’ 

Madame sighed heavily, and looked as if she would speak, 
but refrained, and I saw the tears rolling down her cheeks. 

What conditions, Benjamin?^^ I asked him. Conditions 
for trying to save your own cousins and your own grandfather! 
Conditions? Why, you should be moving heaven and earth 
for them instead of making conditions. 

It needs not so much exertion, he replied, with an un- 
becoming grin. First, Grace^ I must own, child, that the 
two years or thereabouts since I saw thee last have added 
greatly to thy charms, at which I rejoice. 

Oh! what have my charms to do with the business?^^ 


202 


FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. 


‘^Much; as thou wilt presently discover. But let me re- 
mind you both that there threaten — nay, there are actually 
overhanging — disasters, the like of which never happen save 
in time of civil war and of rebellion. My grandfather is in 
prison, and will be tried on a charge of sending men and horses 
to join Monmouth. Nay; the duke^s proclamation was found 
in his house; he will be certainly condemned and his estates 
confiscated. So there will be an end of as old a family as 
lives in Somerset. Then there is thy father, child, who was 
preacher to the army, and did make mischief in stirring up 
the fanaticaf zeal of many. Think you that he can escape? 
Then there is thy brother Barnaby, who was such a fool as to 
meddle in what concerned him not, and now will hang there- 
for. What can we expect? Are men to go unpunished Avho 
thus rebel against the Lord^s xVnointed? Is treason — rank 
treason — the setting up of a Pretender Prince (who is now 
lying headless in his coffin) as the rightful heir, to be forgiven? 
We must not look for it. Alas! madame, had I been with you 
instead of that conceited, fanatical, crook-back Humphrey, 
whom I did ever detest, none’ of these things should have hap- 
pened.'’^ 

Humphrey, I said, has more worth in his finger than 
you in your great body, Benjamin. 

My dear, my dear, do not anger Benjamin! Oh! do not 
anger our only friend !^^ 

She may say what she pleases. My time will come. List- 
en, then. They must all be hanged unless I can succeed in 
getting them pardoned. 

Nay — but — forgive my rudeness, Benjamin; they are your 
own cousins; it is your own grandfather.- What need of con- 
ditions? Oh! what does this mean? Are you a man of flesh 
and blood ?^^ 

My conditions, child, will assure you that such is truly the 
nature of my composition. 

If money is wanted — I thought of my bag of gold and 
of Mr. Penne^s hints — how much will suffice?^'’ 

I know not. If it comes to buying them off, more thou- 
sands than could be raised on the Bradford Orcas estates. Put 
money out of mind. 

Then, Benjamin, save them if thou canst. 

His lordship knows that I have near relations concerned 
in the rebellion. Yet he assured me if his own brothers were 
among the prisoners he would hang them all. 

Nay, then, Benjamin, I say no more. Tell me what are 
these conditions, and if we can grant or contrive them, we will 


FAITH AHD FKEEDOM. 


203 


comply. I had no thought of what was meant by his condi- 
tions^ nor did I even guess until the morning, when madame 
told me. Oh, madame, is there anything in the world — 
anything that we would not do to save them?^^ 

Madame looked at me with so much pity in her eyes that I 
wondered. It was pity for me and not for her son that I read 
in that look. AYhy did she pity me? 

I understood not. 

My dear, she said, there are times when women are 
called upon to make sacrifices which they never thought to 
make, which seem impossible to be even asked — 

Oh! there are no sacrifices which we would not gladly 
make. What can Benjamin require that we should not gladl}^ 
do for him? Nay, he is Kobin^s cousin, and your nephew, and 
Sir Christopher^s grandson. He will, if need be, join us in 
making these sacrifices.''^ 

I will,^ said Benjamin. “ I will join you in making that 
sacrifice with a willing heart. 

will tell h^r to-morrow,^^ said madame. No, I can 
not tell her to-night. Let us rest. Go, sir; leave us to our 
sorrow. It may be that we may think the sacrifice too great 
even for the lives and the safety of those we love. Go, sir, 
for to-night, and return to-morrow. 

Surely, child, said madame, presently, when he was 
gone, and we were alone, we are the most unhappy women 
in the world. 

Nay,^^ I replied. There have been other women before 
us who have been ruined and widowed by civil wars and rebel- 
lions. If it be any comfort to think that others have suffered 
like ourselves, then we may comfort ourselves. But the 
thought brings no consolation to me. 

Hagar,^^ said madame, was a miserable woman because 
she was cast out by the man she loved, even the father of her 
son, but she saved her son. Eachel was unhappy until the 
Lord gave her a son. Jephthah^s daughter was unhappy — my 
dear, there is no case except hers which may be compared with 
ours — and Jephthah^s daughter was happy in one circum- 
stance; that she was permitted to die. Ah! happy girl, she 
died! That was all her sacrifice — to die for the sake of her 
father! But what is ours?'" 

So she spoke in riddles, or dark sayings, of which I under- 
stood nothing. Nevertheless, before lying down, I did solemn- 
ly, and, in her presence and hearing, aloud, upon my knees, 
offer unto Almighty God myself — my very ike — if so that 


201 


FOR FAITH AKH FREEDOM. 


Eobin could be saved. And then, with lighter heart than I 
had known for long, I lay down and slept. 

At midnight or thereabouts madame woke me up. 

Child, she said, 1 can not sleep. Tell me truly; is 
there nothing that you wouldst refuse for Eobin^s sake?^^ 

Nothing, verily! Ah, madame, can you doubt it?^’ 

Even if it were a^acrifice of which he would not approve?^^ 

Believe me, madame, there is nothing that I would not do 
for Eobin^s safety. 

Child, if we were living in the days of persecution, wouldst 
thou hear the Mass and adopt the Catholic religion to save thy 
lover’s life?^^ 

Oh, madame, the Lord will never try us above our 
strength.” 

Sleep, my child, sleep; and pray that as thy temptation, 
so may be thy strength!” 


CHAPTEE XXIX. 

OK WHAT COKDITIOKS? 

In the morning I awoke with a lighter heart than I had 
known for a long time. Benjamin was going to release our 
prisoners! I should go to meet Eobin at the gate of his prison. 
All would be well, except that my father would never recover. 
Vie should return to the village, and everything would go on 
as before. Oh! poor fond wretch! How was I deluded, and 
oh! miserable day that ended with such shame and sadness, 
yet began with so much hope! 

Madame was already dressed. She was sitting at the win- 
dow looking into the church-yard. She had been crying. 
Alas! how many women in Somersetshire were then weeping 
all day long! 

‘‘ Madame,” I said, we now have hope. We must not 
weep and lament any more. Oh! to have at last a little hope 
— when ive have lived so long in despair — it makes one breathe 
again. Benjamin will save our prisoners for us. Oh! after 
all, it is Benjamin who will help us. We did not use to love ; 
Benjamin because he was rude and masterful, and wanted 
everything for himself, and would never give up anything. 
Yet, you see, he hath, after all, a good heart.” Madame 
groaned. “ And he can not forget, though life followeth not 
his grandfather’s opinions, that he is his honor’s grandson — . 

the son of his only daughter — and your nejihew, and first cous- 
in to Eobin, and second cousin oiice removed to Humphrey, - 


FOR FAITH A HD FREEDOM. 


205 


play-fellows of old. Why, these are ties which bind him as if 
with ropes! He needs must bestir himself to save their lives. 
And since he says that he can save them, of course he must 
have bestirred himself to some purpose. Weep no more, dear 
madame; your son will be restored to us! We shall be happy 
again, thanks to Benjamin !^^ 

Child,^^ she replied, my heart is broken. It is broken, 
I say. Oh, to be lying dead and at peace in yonder church- 
yard! Never before did I think that it must be a happy thing 
to be dead and at rest, and to feel nothing and to know noth- 
ing."" 

But, madame, the dead are not in their graves. There 
lie only the bodies. Their souls are above. "" 

Then they still think and remember. Oh! can a time 
ever come when things can be forgotten? Will the dead ever 
cease to reproach themselves?"" 

She wrung her hands in an ecstasy of grief, though I knew 
not what should move her so. Indeed, she was commonly a 
woman of sober and contained disposition, entirely governed 
both in her temper and her words. What was in her mind, 
that she should accuse herself? Then, while I was dressing, 
she went on talking, being still full of this strong passion. 

^‘I shall have my boy back again, "".she said. Yes, he 
will come back to me. And what will he say to me when I 
tell him all? Yet I must have him back. Oh! to think of 
the hangman tying the rope about his neck "" — she shuddered 
and trembled — and afterward the cruel knife "" — she clasped 
her hands and could not say the words. I see the comely 
limbs of my boy. Oh! the thought tears my heart — it tears 
me through and through. I can not think of anything else 
day or night. And yet in the prison he is so patient and so 
cheerful. I marvel that men can be so patient with this 
dreadful death before them."" She broke out again into an- 
other passion of sobbing and crying. Then she became calmer, 
and tried to speak of things less dreadful. 

When first l visited my boy in prison,*"" she said, Hum- 
phrey came humbly to ask my pardon. Poor lad! I have 
had hard thoughts of him. It is certain that he was in the 
plot from the beginning. Yet had he not gone so far, should 
we have sat down when the rising began? But he doth still 
accuse himself of rashness, and calls himself the cause of all 
our misfortunes. He fell upon his knees, in the sight of all, 
to ask forgiveness, saying that it was he and none other who 
liad brought ruin upon us all. Then Eobin begged me to 
raise him up and comfort him; which I did, putting aside my 


206 


FOR FAITH AKi) FREFDOM. 


hard thoughts and telling him that, being such stubborn 
Protestants, our lads could, not choose but join the duke, 
whether he advised it or whether he did not. Nay, I told him 
that Eobin would have dragged him willy-nilly. And so I 
kissed him, and Eobin took him by the hand and solemnly as- 
sured him that his grandfather had no such thought in his 
mind.^^ 

‘‘ Nay,^^ I said, my father and Barnaby would certainly 
have joined the duke, Humphrey or not. Never were any 
men more eager for rebellion.'’^ 

I have been to London,^^ she went on. "Tis a long 
journey, and I effected nothing; for the mind of the king, I 
was assured, is harder than the nether millstone. My broth- 
er-in-law, Boscorel, went with me, and I left him there. But 
I have no hope that he will be able to help us, his old friends 
being much scattered and many of them dead, and some hos- 
tile to the court and in ill favor. So I returned, seeing that if 
I could not ‘save my son, I could be with him until he died. 
The day before yesterday he was tried — if you call that a trial 
when hundreds together plead guilty and are all alike sen- 
tenced to death. 

Have you been home since the trial 

I went to the prison as soon as they were brought back 
from court. Some of the people — for they were all con- 
demned to death, every one — were crying and lamenting. 
And there were many women among them — their wives or 
their mothers — and these were shrieking and wringing their 
hands; so that it was a terrible spectacle. But some of the 
men called for drink, and began to carouse, so that they might 
drown the thought of impending death. My dear, I never 
thought to look upon a scene so full of horror. As for my 
own boys, Eobin was patient and even cheerful; and Hum- 
phrey, leading us to the most quiet spot in that dreadful place, 
exhorted us to lose no time in weeping or vain laments, but to 
cheer and console our hearts with the thought that death, 
even violent death, is but a brief pang, and life is but a short 
passage, and that heaven awaits us beyond. Humphrey should 
have been a minister, such is the natural piety and goodness 
of his heart. So he spoke of the happy meeting in that place 
of blessedness where earthly love would be purged of its gross- 
ness, and our souls shall be so glorified that we shall each ad- 
mire the beauty and the excellence of the other. Then Eobin 
talked of you, my dear, and sent thee a loving message, bid- 
ding thee grieve for him, but not without hope — and that a 
sure and certain hope— of meeting again. There are other 


FOE FAITH AHD FEEEDOM. 


207 


things he bade me tell thee; but now I can not! — oh, I must 
not!^^ 

‘^Nay, madarne; but if they are words that he wished me 
to hear — 

Why, they were of his constant love and — and — no, I can 
not tell them 

Nay,^^ I said, fret not thy poor heart with thinking any 
more of the prison; for Benjamin will surely save him, and 
then we shall love Benjamin all our lives/ ^ 

He will perhaps save him. And yet — oh, how can I tell 
her? — we shall shed many more tears. How can I tell her? 
How can I tell her?^^ 

She broke off again, but. presently recovered and went on 
talking. In time of great trouble the mind wanders backward 
and forward, and though one talks still, it is disjointedly. So 
she went back to the prison. 

The boys have been well, though the prison is full and 
the air is foul. Yet there hath been as yet no fever, for which 
they are thankful. At first they had no money, the soldiers 
who took them prisoners having robbed them of their money, 
and indeed stripped them as well to their shirts, telling them 
that shirts were good enough to be hanged in. Yet the peo- 
ple of Exeter have treated the prisoners with great humanity, 
bringing them daily food and drink, so that there has been 
nothing lacking. The time, however, doth hang upon their 
hands in a place where there is nothing to do all day but to 
think of the past and to dread the future. One poor lady, I 
was told, hath gone distracted with the terror of this thought. 
Child, every day that I visited my son, while he talked with 
me, always cheerful and smiling, my mind turned continually 
to the scaffold and the gibbet. ’ Then she returned to the old 
subject, from which she could in no way escape. I saw the 
hangman. I saw my son hanging to the shameful tree — oh! 
my son! my son! — till I could bear it no longer, and would 
hurry away from the prison and walk about the town over the 
fields — ^yea, all night long-^to escape the dreadful thought. 
Oh! to be blessed with such a son, and to have him torn from 
my arms for such a death! If he had been killed upon the 
field of battle ^twould have been easier to bear. But now he 
dies daily, he dies a thousand deaths in my mind. My child !^^ 
— she turned again to the church-yard — ‘‘ the rooks are caw- 
ing in their nests; the sparrows and the robins hop among the 
graves; the dead hear nothing; all their troubles are over, all 
their sins are forgiven.'’^ 

I comforted her as well as I could. Indeed, I understood 


208 


FOB FAITH AHD FKEEDOM. 


not at all what she meant^ thinking that perhaps all her ^ 
trouble had caused her to be in that frame of mind when a 
woman doth not know whether to laugh or to cry. And then, 
taking my basket, I sallied forth to provide the day^s pro- 
visions for my prisoners. 

‘‘Barnaby,^^ I said, when he came to the wicket, I have 
good news for thee.^^ 

What good news? That I am to be flogged once a year 
in every market-town in Somersetshire, as will happen to 
young Tutchin?^^ 

No, no — not that kidd of news. But freedom, brother; 
hope for freedom. 

He laughed. Who is to give us freedom 
Benjamin hath found a way for the enlargement of all.'^^ 

Ben Boscorel? What? will he stir finger for the sake of 
anybody? Then, Sis, if I remember Ben aright, there will be 
something for himself. But if it is upon Ben that we are to 
rely we are truly well sped. On Ben, quotha!’^ 

My brother, he told me so himself.'’^ 

Ware hawks, sister. If Ben is at one end of the rope and 
the hangman at the other, I think I know who will be stronger. 
Well, child, believe Ben if thou wilt. Thy father looks strange 
this morning; he opened his eyes and seemed to know me. I 
wonder if there is a change? ^Tis wonderful how he lasts. 
There are six men sickened since yesterday of the fever; three 
of them brought in last week are already dead. As for the | 
singing that we used to hear, it is all over; and if the men get ; 
drunk they are dumb drunk. Sir Christopher looks but poor- ^ 
ly this morning. I hope he will not take the fever. He 
staggered when he arose, which is a bad sign.'^^ ' 

Tell mother, Barnaby, what Benjamin hath undertaken 
to do. i 

Nay, that shall I not, because, look you, I believe it not. ] 
There is some trick or lie at the bottom, unless Ben hath re- j 
pented and changed his disposition, which used to be two parts i 
wolf, one part bear, and the rest fox. If there were anything j 
left it was serpent. Well, sister, I am no grumbler, but I ex- 
pect this job to be over in a fortnight or so, when they say the 
Wells Assizes will be held. Then we shall all be swinging, 
and I only hope that we may carry with us into the court such 
a breath of jail-fever as shall lay the judge himself upon his 
back and end his days. In the next world he will meet the 
men whom he has sentenced, and it will fare worse for him in 
their hands than with fifty thousand devils/^ 


POK FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


209 


So he took a drink of the beer, and departed within the 
prison. And for three weeks I saw him no more. 

On my way home I met Benjamin. 

Hath madame told you yet of my conditions he asked, 
eagerly. 

‘‘Not yet; she will doubtless tell me presently. Oh! what 
matter for the conditions? It can only be something good for 
us, contrived by your kind heart, Ben. I have told Barnaby, 
who will not believe in our good fortune. 

“ It is indeed something very good for you, Grace, as you 
will find. Come with me and walk in the meadows beyond 
the reach of this doleful place, where the air reeks with jail- 
fever, and all day long they are reading the funeral service. 

So he led me out upon the sloping sides of a hill, where we 
walked awhile upon the grass very pleasantly, my mind being 
now at rest. 

“You have heard of nothing, he said, “ of late, but of the 
rebellion and its consequences. Let us talk about London. 

So he discoursed concerning his own profession and his pros- 
pects, which, he said, were better than those of any other 
young lawyer, in his own opinion. “For my practice, he 
said, “ I already have one which gives me an income far be- 
yond my wants, which are simple. Give me plain fare, and 
for the evening a bottle or two of good wine, with tobacco, 
and friends who love a cheerful glass. I ask no more. My 
course lies clear before me; I shall become a king^s counsel; I 
shall be made a judge; presently I shall become lord chancellor. 
What did I tell thee, child, long ago? Well, that time has 
now arrived. 

Still I was so foolish, being so happy, that I could not un- 
derstand what he meant. 

“ I am sure, Benjamin, I said, “ that we at home shall 
ever rejoice and be proud of your success. Nobody will be 
more happy to hear of it than Eobin and I.-"^ 

Here he turned very red and muttered something. 

“ You find your happiness in courts and clubs and London,^^ 
I went on; “as for Eobin and myself, we shall find ours in 
the peaceful place which we have always decided to have.'’^ 

“ What the devil! he cried; “ hath she not told you already 
the conditions? She came with me for no other purpose. I 
have borne with her company all the way from Exeter for this 
only. Go back to her and ask what it is! Go back, I say, 
and make her tell! W^hat? am I to take all this trouble for 
nothing?^ ^ 

His face was purple with sudden rage, his eyes were fierce, 


210 


FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. 


and he roared and bawled at me. Why, what had I said? 
How had I angered him? 

Benjamin/^ I cried, what is the matter? How have I 
angered you?^^ 

Go back!^^ he roared again. Tell her that if I present- 
ly come and find thee still in ignorance, ^twill be the worse 
for all! Tell her that /say it. -^Twill else be worse for all!^^ 


CHAPTER XXX. 

A SLIGHT THIHG AT THE BEST. 

So I left Benjamin, much frightened, and marveling both 
at his violent passion and at th^e message which he sent to 
madame. 

She was waiting for me at the lodging. 

Madame, I said, have seen Benjamin. He is very 
angry. He bade me go home and ask you concerning his con- 
ditions. We must not anger our best friend, dear madame. 

She rose from her chair and began to walk about, wringing 
her hands as if torn by some violent emotion. 

Oh, my child she cried. Grace, come to my arms — if 
it is for the last time — my daughter. More than ever mine, 
though I must never call thee daughter. 

She held me in her arms, kissing me tenderly. My dear, 
we agreed that no sacrifice is too great for the safety of our 
boy. Yes, we agreed to that. Let us kiss each other before 
we do a thing after which we can never kiss each other again. 
No, never again. 

Why not again, madame ?^^ 

“ Oh,^^ she pushed me from her, ‘‘it is now eight of the 
clock; he will be here at ten! I promised I would tell thee 
before he came! And all is in readiness. 

“ For what, madanie?^^ 

Why, even then I guessed not her meaning, though I might 
have done so; but I never thought that so great a wickedness 
was possible. 

“ No sacrifice should be too great for us!^^ she cried, clasp- 
ing her head with her hands, and looking wildly about. 
“ Xone too great! Not even the sacrifice of my own song's 
love — no, not that! Why, let us think of the sacrifices men 
make for their country, for their religion. Abraham was ready 
to offer his son Isaac; Jephthah sacrificed his daughter; King 
Mesha slew his eldest son for a burnt-ofiering. Thousands of 
men die every year in battle for their country. What have we 


FOR FAITH AKB FRFFDOM, 211 

to offer? If we give ourselves, it is but a slight thing that we 
offer at the best/^ 

Surely, madame,^^ I cried, you know that we would 
willingly die for the sake of Eobin!^^ 

‘‘Yes, child, to die; to die were nothing. It is to live — we 
must live — ^forEobin.^^ 

“ I understand not, madame.^^ 

“ Listen, then, for the time presses, and if he arrive and find 
that I have not broken the thing to thee, he will perhaps ride 
back to Exeter in a rage. When I left 6y son after the trial, 
being very wretched and without hope, I found Benjamin 
waiting for me at the prison gates. He walked with me to my 
lodging, and on the way he talked of what was in my mind. 
First he said that for the better sort there was little hope, see- 
ing that the king was revengeful and the judge most wrathful, 
and in a mood which allowed of no mercy. Therefore it would 
be best to dismiss all hopes of pardon or of safety either to 
these two or to the prisoners of Ilminster. Now when he had 
said this a great many times, we being now. arrived at my 
lodging, he told me that there was, in my case, a way out of 
the trouble, and one way only; that if we consented to follow 
that way, which, he said, would do no manner of harm to 
either of us or to our prisoners, he would undertake and faith- 
fully engage to secure the safety of all our prisoners. I prayed 
him to point out this way, and after much entreaty he con- 
sented. 

“ What is the way?^^ I asked, having not the least sus- 
picion. And yet the look in., her eyes should have told me 
what was coming. 

“ Is it true, child, that long ago you were betrothed to Ben- 
jamin?^^ 

“ No, madame. That is most untrue. 

“ He says that when you were quite a little child he informed 
you of his intention to marry you, and none but you.^^ 

“ Why, that is true indeed. And now I began to under- 
stand the way that was proposed, and my heart sunk within 
me. “ That is true. But to tell a child such a thing is not a 
betrothal. 

“ He says that only three or four years ago he renewed that 
assurance. 

“ So he did; but I gave him no manner of encouragement.^^ 

“ He says that he promised to return and marry you when 
he had arrived at some practice, and that he engaged to be- 
come lord chancellor and make you a peeress of the realm. 

“ All that he said and more. Yet did I never give him the 


212 


FOR FAITH AXD FREEDOM. 


least encouragement, but quite the contrary, for always have I 
feared and disliked Benjamin. Never at any time was it pos- 
sible for me to think of him in that way. That he knows, and 
can not pretend otherwise. Madame, doth Benjamin wish 
evil to Kobin because I am betrothed to him?^^ 

He also says, in his rude way — Benjamin was always a 
rude and coarse boy — that he had warned you, long ago, that 
if any one else came in his way he would break the head of 
that man. 

“ Yes, I remember that he threatened some violence.-’^ 

My dear — madame took my hand — his time of re- 
venge is come. He says that he has the life of the man whom 
you love in his own hands; aiid he will, he swears, break his 
head for him, and so keep the promise made to you by tying the 
rope round his neck. My dear, Benjamin has always been 
stubborn and obstinate from his birth. Stubborn and obsti- 
nate was he as a boy; stubborn and obstinate is he now. He 
cares for nobody in the world except himself; he has no heart; 
he has no tenderness; he has no scruples; if he wants a thing, 
he will trample on all the world to get it, and break all the 
laws of God. I know what manner of life he leads. He is 
the friend and companion of the dreadful judge who goeth 
about like a raging lion. Every night do they drink together 
until they are speechless and can not stand. Their delight it 
is to drink, and smoke tobacco, with unseemly jests and 
ribald songs which would disgrace the play-house or the coun- 
try fair. Oh! Tis the life of a hog that he delights in! Yet, 
for all that, he is, like his noble friend, full of ambition. 
Nothing will do biit he must rise in the world. Therefore he 
works hard at his profession, and — 

Madame, the condition! — what is the condition? For 
Heaven ^s sake tell me quickly! Is it? — is it? — Oh, no! no! 
no! Anything but that!^^ 

My child, my daughter — she laid her hand upon my 
head — it is that condition — that, and none other. Oh! my 
dear, it is laid upon thee to save us!: — it is to be thy work alone 
— and by such a sacrifice as, I think, no woman ever yet had 
to make! Nay, perhaps it is better not to make it, after all. 
Let all die together, and let us live out our allotted lives in 
sorrow. I thought of it all night, and it seemed better so — 
better even that thou wert lying in thy grave. His condition! 
Oh! he must be a devil thus to barter for the lives of his 
grandfather and his cousins — no human being, surely, would 
do such a thing. The condition, my dear, is that thou must 
marry him — now, this yc y morning — and this once done, he 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


213 


will at once take such steps — I know not what they may be, 
but I take it that his friend the judge will grant him the favor 
— such steps, I say, as will release unto us all our prisoners. 

At first I made no answer. 


If not,^^ she added, after awhile, they shall all be surely 
hanged. 

I remained silent. It is not easy at such a moment to col- 
lect one^s thoughts and understand what things mean. I 
asked her presently if there was no other way.. 

None,""^ she said; there was no other way.-^^ 

What shall I do?— what shall I ^0?^" I asked. God, it 
seems, hath granted my daily prayer, but how? Oh! what 
shall I do?^^ 

Think of what thou hast in thy power. 

But to marry him — to marry Benjamin — oh, to marry 
him! How should I live? How should I look the world in 
the face?^^ 


My dear, there are many other unhappy wives. There 
are other husbands brutal and selfish; there are other men as 
wicked as my nephew. Thou wilt swear in church to love, 
honor, and obey him. Thy love is already hate; thy honor is 
contempt; thy obedience will be the obedience of a slave. Yet 
death cometh at length even to a slave and to the harsh task- 
master. ^ 

“ Oh, madame, miserable indeed is the lot of those whose 
only friend is death 

She was silent, leaving me to think of this terrible condition. 
What would Eobin say? What would Humphrey say? 
Nay, what would his honor himself say?^^ 

Why, child, she replied, with a kind of laugh, it needs 
not a wizard to tell what they would say. For, one and all, 
they would rather go to the gallows than buy their lives at 
such a price. Thy brother Barnaby would mount the ladder 
with a cheerful heart rather than sell his sister to buy his life. 
That we know already. Nay, we know more. For Eobin 
will never forgive his mother who suffered thee to do such a 
thing. So shall I lose what I value more than life— the love 
of my only son. Yet would I buy his life at such a price. 
My dear, if you lose your lover, I lose my son. Yet we will 
.save him whether he will or no.'^^ She took my hands and 
pressed them in her own. “ My dear, it will be worse for me, 
than for you. You will have a husband, ifc is true, whom you 
will loathe; yet you will not see him, perhaps, for half the day 
at least; and perhaps he will leave thee to thyself for the other 


214 


FOB FAITH AHD FKEEDOM. 


half. But for me, I shall have to endure the loss of my son’s 
affections all my life, because I am very sure and certain that 
he can never forgive me. Think, my dear! Shall they all 
die? — all? — think of father and brother, and of your mother! 
— or will you willingly endure a life of misery with this man 
for husband in order that they may live?’"' 

Oh, madame,” I said, “ as for the misery — any other kind 
of misery I would willingly endure; but it is marriage — mar- 
riage! Yet who am I, that I should choose my sacrifice? Oh, 
if good works were of any avail, then would the way to heaven 
be opened wide for me by such an act and such a life! Oh, 
what will Eobin say of me? What will he think of me? Will 
he curse me and loathe me for being able to do this thing? 
Should I do it? Is it right? Doth God command it? Yet 
to save their dear lives; only to set them free; to send that 
good old man back to his home; to suffer my father to die 'in 
peace — I must do it — I must do it. Yet Eobin could never 
forgive me. Oh! he told me that betrothal was a sacrament. 
I have sworn to be his. Yet, to save his life, I can not hesi- 
tate. If it is wrong, I pray that Eobin will forgive me. Tell 
him— oh, tell him that it is I who am to die instead of him. 
Perhaps God will suffer me to die quickly. Tell him that I 
loved him, and only him; that I would rather have died; that 
for his life alone I would not have done this thing, because he 
would not have suffered it. But it is for all — it is for all. 
Oh, he must forgive me! Some day you will send me a mes- 
sage of forgiveness from him. But I must go away and live 
in London, far from all of you; never to see him or any one 
of you again — not even my own mother. It is too shameful a 
thing to do. And you will tell his honor, who hath always 
loved me and would willingly have called me his granddaugh- 
ter. It was not that I loved not Eobin — God knoweth that — 
but for all; for him and Eobin and all; to save his gray hairs 
•from the gallows, and to send him back to his home. Oh! tell 
him that!^’ 

My dear — my dear,’^ she replied, but could say no more. 

Then for awhile we sat in silence, with beating hearts. 

I am to purchase the lives of five honest men,’’ I said 
presently, by my own dishonor. I know very well that it is 
by my dishonor and my sin that their lives are to be bought. 
It doth not save me from dishonor that I am first to stand in 
the church and be married according to the Prayer-Book. 
Nay, does it not make the sin greater and the dishonor more 
certain that I shall first swear what I can not ever perform — to 
love and honor that man?” 


I’OR FAITH AKD FREEDOM. 215 

girl — ^yes!^^ said madame. ^^But the sin is mine 
more than yours. Oh! let me bear the sin upon myself. 

You can not; it is my sin and my dishonor; nay, it is a 
most dreadful wicked thing that I am to do. It is all the sins 
in one; I do not honor my parents in thus dishonoring myself; 
I kill myself, the woman that my Eobin loved; I steal the out- 
ward form which belonged to Eobin and give it to another; I 
live in a kind of adultery. It is truly a terrible sin in the sight 
of Heaven. Yet I will do it! — I must do it! I love him so 
that I can not let him die; rather let me be overwhelmed with 
shame and reproach if only he can live!^^ 

Said I not, my dear, that we two could never kiss each 
other again? When two men have conspired together to com- 
mit a crime they consort no more together, it is said, but go 
apart and loathe each other. So it is now with us.^"' 

So I promised to do this thing. The temptation was beyond 
my strength. Yet had I possessed more faith I should have 
refused. And then great indeed would have been my reward. 
Alas! how was I punished for my want of faith! Well, it 
was to save my lover. Love makes us strong for evil as well 
as strong for good. 

And all the time to think that we never inquired or proved 
his promises! To think that we never thought of doubting, or 
of asking how he, a young barrister, should be able to save the 
lives of four active rebels, and one who had been zealous in the 
cause! That two women should have been so simple is now 
astonishing. 

When the clock struck ten I saw Benjamin walking across 
the church-yard. It was part of the brutal nature of the man 
that he should walk upon the graves, even those newly made 
and not covered up with turf. He swung his great burly 
form, and looked up at the window with a grin which made 
madame tremble and shrink back. But for me, I was not 
moved by the sight of him, for now I was strong in resolution. 
Suppose one who hath made up her mind to go to the stake 
for her religion, as would doubtless have happened unto many 
had King James been allowed to continue his course, do you 
think that such a woman wojjild begin to tremble at the sight 
of her executioner? Not so. She would arise and go forth to 
meet him, with pale face perhaps (because the agony is sharp), 
but with a steady eye. Benjamin opened the door, and stood 
looking from one to the other. 

Well,^^ he said to madame, roughly, ‘^you have by this 
time told her the conditions?^^ 


216 


FOR FAITH AKD FREEDOM. 


I have told her — alas! I have told her — and already I re- 
pent me that I have told her.^^ 

Doth she consent?^^ 

She does. It shall be as you desire. ^ 

Benjamin drew a long breath. ^^Said I not, | 
sweetheart — he turned to me — that I would break the head I 
of any who came between us? What! have I not broken the * 
head of my cousin when I take away his girl? Very well, then, i 
It remains to carry out the condition. ^ 

The condition, I said, I understand to be this: If I be- ^ 
come your wife, Benjamin, you knowing full well that I love 
another man, and am already promised to him — 

Ta — ta — taP^ he said. That you are promised to an-’ 
other man matters not one straw. That you love another man 
I care nothing. What! I promise, sweetheart, that I will; 
soon make thee forget that other man. And as for loving any 
other man- after marrying me, that, d^ye see, my pretty, will ■ 
be impossible. Oh! thou shalt be the fondest wife in thei 
Three Kingdoms. i 

Nay; if such a thing can not move your heart, I say no; 
more. If I marry you, then all our prisoners will be en-' 
larged?^^ 

I swear — he used a great round oath, very horrid from 
the lips of a Christian man— I swear that, if you marry me, 
the three — Robin, Humphrey and Barnaby — shall all save 
their lives. And as for Sir Christopher and thy father, they 
also shall be enlarged. Can I say aught in addition ?^^ 

I suspected no deceit. I understood, and so did madame^ 
that this promise meant the full and free forgiveness of all.^ 
Yet there was something of mockery in his eyes which should 
have made us suspicious. But I, for one, was young and' 
ignorant, and madame was country-bred and- truthful. 

Benjamin, I cried, falling on my knees before him; 
think what it is you ask! Think what a wicked thing you 
would have me do! — to break my vows, who am promised to" 
your cousin! And would you leave your grandfather to perish,^ 
all for a whim about a silly girl? Benjamin, you are playing 
with us. You can not, you could not sell the lives, the very^ 
lives of your grandfather ancbyour cousins for such a price as 
this! The play has gone far enough, Benjamin. Tell us that]| 
it is over, and that you never meant to be taken seriously, and 
we will forgive you the anguish you have caused us.^^ 

Get up,^'’ he said — ‘‘get up, I say, and stop this folly. . 
He then began to curse and swear. “ Playing, is it? You « 
shall quickly discover that it is no play, but serious enough toj 


FOR FAITH AKD FREEDOM. 217 

? lease you all, Puritans though you be. Playing! Get up, 
say, and have done."^^ 

Then/^ I said, there is not in the whole world a more 
inhuman monster than yourself. 

“Oh! my dear, my dear, do not anger him!^^ cried ma- 
dame. 

“ All is fair in love, my pretty, said Benjamin, with a 
grin. “Before marriage call me what you please — inhuman 
monster, anything that you please. After marriage, my wife 
will have to sing a different tune.'^^ 

“ Oh, Benjamin, treat her kindly madame cried. 

“I mean not otherwise. Kindness is my nature. I am 
too kind for my own interests. Obedience I expect, and good 
temper and a civil tongue, with such respect as is due to one 
who intends to be lord chancellor. Come, child, no more hard 
words. Thou shalt be the happiest woman, I say, in the 
world. What? Monmouth^s rebellion was only contrived to 
make thy happiness. Instead of a dull country house thou 
shalt have a house in London; instead of the meadows, thou 
shalt have the parks; instead of skylarks, the singers at the 
play-house; in due course thou shalt be my lady — 

“Oh, stop! stop! I must marry you, since you make me, 
but the partner in your ambitions will I never be.^^ 

“My dear,^^ madame whispered, “speak him fair. Be 
humble to him. Eemember he holds in his hands the lives of 
all.^^ 

“ Yes,^^ Benjamin overheard her. “ The lives of all. The 
man who dares to take my girl from me — mine — deserves to 
die. Yet so clement, so forgiving, so generous am I, that I 
am ready to pardon him. He shall actually save his live. If, 
therefore, jt is true that (before marriage) you love that man 
and are promised tp him, come to church with me, out of your 
great love to him, m order to save his life; but if you love him 
not, then you can love me, and therefore can come to please 
yourself, willy-nilly. What! am I to be thwarted in such a 
trifle? Willy-nilly, I say, I will marry thee. Come — ^we 
waste the time.^^ 

He seized my wrist as if he would have dragged me toward 
the door. 

“ Benjamin, cried madame, “be merciful! she is but a 
girl, and she loves my poor boy — ^be merciful! Oh! it is not 
yet .too late.'"'' She snatched me from his grasp and stood be- 
tween us, her arms outstretched. “It is not too late; they 
may die, and we will go in sorrow, but not in shame. They 
may die. Go! murderer of thy kith and kin. Go, send thy 


218 


fon FAITH AKi) FREEt)OM. 


grandfather to die upon the scaffold; but at least leave us in 
peace/ ^ 

No, madame/^ I said. With your permission, if there 
be no other way, I will save their lives.-''' 

Well, then,^^ Benjamin said, sulkily, there must be an 
end of this talk and no further delay; else, by the Lord, I 
know not what may happen! Will Tom Boilman delay to pre- 
pare his caldron of hot pitch? If we wait much longer Eobin^s 
arms and legs will be seething in that broth! Doth the judge 
delay with his warrant? Already he signs it — already they are 
putting up the gibbet on which he will hang! Come, I say!^^ 

Benjamin was sure of his prey, I suppose, because we found 
the clergyman waiting for us in the church, ready with sur- 
plice and book. The clerk was standing beside him, also with 
his book, open at the Service for Marriage. While they read 
the service, madame threw herself prostrate on the communion 
steps, her head in her hands, as one who suffers the last ex- 
treniities of remorse and despair for sin too grievous to be ever 
forgiven. Let us hope that sometimes we may judge our- 
selves more harshly than Heaven itself doth judge us. 

The clerk gave me away, and was the only witness of the 
marriage besides that poor distracted mother. ^Twas a strange 
wedding. There had been no bans put up; the bride was 
pale and trembling; the bridegroom was gloomy; the only 
other person present wept upon her knees while the parson 
read through his ordered prayer and psalm and exhortation; 
there was no sign of rejoicing. 

So,"" said Benjamin, when all was over. Now thou art 
my wife. They shall not be hanged therefore. Come, wife, 
we will this day ride to Exeter, where thou shalt thyself bear 
the joyful news of thy marriage, and their safety to my cous- 
ins. They will own that I am a loving and a careful cousin."" 

He led me, thus talking, out of church. Now as we left 
the church-yard there passed through the gates — oh! baleful 
omen — four men carrying between them a bier. Upon it was 
the body of another poor prisoner, dead of jail-fever. I think 
that even the hard heart of Benjamin — now my husband (oh, 
merciful Heavens! he was my husband!)— quailed, and was 
touched with fear at meeting this most sure and certain sign 
of coming woe, for he muttered something in his teeth, and 
cursed the bearers aloud for not choosing another time. 

My husband, then — I must needs call him my husband — 
told me brutally that I must ride with him to Exeter, where I 
should myself bear the joyful news of their safety to his cous- 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


319 


ins. I did not take that journey, nor did I bear the news, nor 
did I ever after that morning set eyes upon him again, nor did 
I ever speak to him again. His wife I remained, I suppose, 
because I was joined to him in church. But I never saw him 
after that morning, and the reason why you shall now hear. 

At the door of our lodging, which was, you know, hard by , 
the church, stood Mr. Boscorel himself. 

What means this?^^ he asked, with looks troubled and 
confused. What doth it mean, Benjamin? What hath 
happened, in the name of God?^*" 

“ Sir,^^ said Benjamin, ‘‘you know my character. You 
will acknowledge that I am not one of those who are easily 
turned from their purpose. Truly, the occasion is not favora- 
ble for a wedding, but yet 1 present to you my newly married 
wife.*"^ 

“ Thy wife. Child, he thy husband? Whj, thou aft be- 
trothed to Eobin! Hath the world gone crazy? Do I hear 
aright? Is this — this — this a time to be marrying? Hast 
thou not heard? Hast thou not heard, I say?^^ 

“Brother-in-law,^^ said madame, “it is to save the lives 
of all that this is done. 

“ To save the lives of all?^^ Mr. Boscorel repeated. “ Why 
— why, hath not Benjamin, then, told what hath happened, 
and what hath been done?^^ 

“ No, sir, I have not,^^ said his son. “ I had other fish to 
fry.^'' 

“ Not told them? Is it possible?^-’ 

“ Benjamin hath promised to save all their lives if this child 
would marry him. To save their lives hath Grace consented, 
and I with her. He will save them through his great friend- 
ship with Judge Jeffreys.-’^ 

“ Benjamin to save their lives? Sirrah!’^ — he turned to his 
son with great wrath in his face — “what villainy is this? 
Thou hast promised to save their lives? What villainy, I say, 
is this? Sister-in-law, did he not tell you what hath been 
done?^^ 

“ He has told us nothing. Oh! is there new misery?^ ^ 

“ Child — Mr. Boscorel spoke with the tears running down 
his cheeks — “thou art betrayed — alas! most cruelly and 
foully betrayed. My son — would to God that I had died be- 
fore I should say so — is a villain! For, first, the lives of these 
young men are already saved, and he hath known it for a week 
and more. Learn, then, that with the help of certain friends 
I have used such interest at court that for these three I have 
received the proniise of safety. Yet they will not be par- 


220 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


doned. They are given, among other prisoners, to the courtiers 
and the ladies-in-waiting. One Mr. Jerome Nipho hath re- 
ceived and entered on his list the names of Eobin and Hum- 
phrey Challis and Barnaby Eykin ; they will be sold by him, 
and transported to Jamaica or elsewhere for a term of years. 

They were already saved cried madame. He knew, 
then, when they were tried and sentenced, that their lives were 
already spared! Oh, child! poor child! Oh, Grace! Oh, my 
daughter! what misery have we brought upon thee!^^ 

Benjamin said nothing. On his face lay a scowl of obsti- 
nacy. As’ for me, I was clinging to madame^s arm. This 
man was my husband, and Eobin was already saved, and by 
lies and villainy he had cheated us! 

They were already saved, Mr. Boscorel continued. 
‘‘ Benjamin knew.it; I sent him a letter that he might tell his 
cousins. My son, alas! I say again, my only son — my only 
son — my son^s a villain !^^ 

No one shall take my girl,^^ said Benjamin. What! 
All is fair in love!^^ 

He has not told you, either, what hath happened in the 
prison? Thou hadst speech, I hear, with Barnaby, early this 
morning, child. The other prisoners — he lowered his voice 
and folded his hands as in prayer — ‘^they have since been en- 
larged. 

How?^'’ madame asked. Is Sir Christopher free?^^ 

He hath received his freedom — from One who never fails 
to set poor prisoners free. My father-in-law fell dead in the 
court-yard at nine o^ the clock this morning — weep not for 
him. But, child, there is much more; about that same time 
thy father breathed his last. He too is dead; he too hath his 
freedom. Benjamin knew of this as well, Grace, my child 
— the kindly tears of compassion rolled down his face. 
have loved thee always, my dear; and it is my son who hath 
wrought this wickedness, my own son, my only son — he 
shook his cane in Benjamin^s face. Oh, villain !^^ he cried; 
‘‘ oh, villainr 

Benjamin made no reply, but his face was black and his 
eyes obstinate. 

There is yet more — oh! there is more. Thou hast lost 
thy mother as well. For at the sight of her husband ^s death 
his poor patient wife could no longer bear the trouble, but she 
too fell dead — of a broken heart; yea, she fell dead upon his 
dead body — the Lord showed her this great and crowning 
mercy — so that they all died together. This too Benjamin 
knew. Oh, villain! villain !^^ 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 321 

Benjamin heard unmoved, except that his scowl grew 
blacker. 

Go/^ his father continued. load thee not, my son, 
with a father^s curse. Thy wickedness is so great that thy 
punishment will be exemplary. The judgments of God de- 
scend upon the most hardened. . Get thee gone out of my 
sight. Let me never more behold thee until thou hast felt the 
intolerable pain of remorse. Get thee hence, I say! Begone!’^ 
I go not,^*" said Benjamin, without my loving wife. I 
budge not, I say, without my tender and loving wife. Come, 
my dear. 

He advanced with outstretched hands, but I broke away and 
fled shrieking. As I ran, Mr. Boscorel stood before his son 
and barred the way, raising his right hand. 

^^Back! boy, back!^’ he said, solemnly. ‘^Back, I say! 
Before thou reachest thy most unhappy wife, thou must first 
pass over thy father^s body!^^ 


CHAPTEE XXXI. 

THE VISION OF CONSOLATION. 

I RAN SO fast, being then young and strong, that Benjamin, 
I am sure, could not have overta&n me had he tried, because 
he was already gross of body and short of breath in conse- 
quence of his tippling. I have since heard that he did not 
follow me, nor did he dare to push aside his father. But he 
laughed and said: Let her run; let her run. I warrant I 
shall find her and bring her back,^’ thinking, I suppose, that 
I had run from him as a girl in play runs from her c6mpan- 
ions. I ran also so long, fear lending me strength, that the 
sun was getting even into the afternoon before I ventured to 
stop. I looked round from time to time, but saw no one fol- 
lowing me. I do not remember by what road, track, or path 
I went; pasture-fields and plantations I remember; twice I 
crossed a stream on stepping-stones, once I saw before me a 
village with a church tower, but this I avoided for fear of 
the people. When I ventured to stop I was in a truly wild 
and desolate country — our county of Somerset hath in it many 
such wild places, given over to forests, fern, and heather. 
Presently I remembered the place, though one forest is much 
like another, and I knew that I had been in this place before, 
on that day when we rode from Lyme to Taunton, and again 
on the day when we walked prisoners with the soldiers to 
Ilminster. I was on the Black Down Hill again. 


I*OR MITS A^TD freedom. 


When, therefore, I understood where I was, I began to re- 
cover a little from the first horror which had driven me to fly 
like one possessed of an evil spirit; and seeing that no one was 
in pursuit, I began to collect my senses and to ask myself 
whither I was going, and what I should do. I was then in 
that ancient inclosure called Castle Eatch, from whose walls 
one looks down upon the broad vale of Taunton Dean. In the 
distance I thought I could discern the great tower of St. Mary^s 
Church, but perhaps that was only my imagination. I sat 
down, therefore, upon the turf under these ancient walls, and 
set myself to consider my condition, which was indeed forlorn. 

First, I had no friends or protectors left in the whole world, 
because after what I had doneT could never look upon Eobin 
or even Humphrey again; nor could I importune madame, be- 
cause she would not anger her son (I represented him in my 
mind as most unforgiving); nor could I seek the help of Mr. 
Boscorel, because that might help his son to find out, and 
everybody knows that a husband may command the obedience 
of his wife. And Sir Christopher was dead, and my father 
was dead, and my mother was dead, and I could not even weep 
beside their cofiSns or follow their bodies to the grave. A wom- 
an without friends in this world is like unto a traveler in a 
sandy desert without a bottle of water. 

Yet was I so far better than some of these poor friendless 
creatures, because I had concealed upon me a bag containing 
all the money which Barnaby had given me — two hundred and 
fifty gold pieces — save a little which we had expended at 
Taunton and Ilminster. This is a great sum, and % its help 
I could, I thought with satisfaction, live for a long time, per- 
haps all my life, if I could find some safe retreat among godly 
people. 

No friends? Why, there was Susan Blake of Taunton; she 
who walked with the maids when they gave Monmouth the 
Bible, the sword, and the flags. I resolved that I would go to 
her and tell her all that had happened. Out of her kindness 
she would take me in and help me to find some safe hiding- 
place and perhaps some honest way of living, so as to save his 
money against Barnaby’s return from the plantations. 

Then 1 thought I would find out the valley where we had 
lived for a fortnight, and rest for one night in the hut, and in 
the early morning before day-break walk down the coomb, and 
so into Taunton, while as yet the town was still sleeping. And 
this I did. It was very easy to find the head of the coomb and 
the source of the stream, where we had made our encamp- 
ment. Close by, beneath the trees, was Barnaby^s hut; no 


FOR FAITH AI^-D FREEDOM. 


223 


one had been there tp disturb or destroy it; but the leaves 
upon the boughs which formed its sides were now dead. With- 
in it the fern and the heath which had formed my bed were 
still dry. Outside, the pot hung over the black embers of our 
last fire, and to my great joy, in the basket which had con- 
tained our provisions I found a large crust of bread. It was, 
to be sure, dry and hard; but I dipped it in the running water 
of the stream and made my supper with it. For dessert I had 
blackberries, which were now ripe, and are nowhere bigger or 
sweeter than on Black Down. There were also filberts and 
nuts, also ripe, of which I gathered a quantity, so that I had 
breakfast provided for me, as well as supper. 

When I had done this I was so tired and my head so giddy 
with the terror of the day that I lay down upon the fern in the 
hut and there fell fast asleep, and so continued until far into 
the night. 

Now in my sleep a strange thing happened unto me. For 
my own part, I account it nothing less than a Vision granted 
unto me by mercy and special grace of Heaven. Those who 
read of it may call it what they please. It was in this wise: 
There appeared before my sleeping eyes (but they seemed wide 
open), as it were, a broad and open champaign; presently there 
came running across the plain in great terror, shrieking and 
holding her hands aloft, a girl, whose face I could not see. 
She ran in this haste and terrible anguish of fear because there 
followed after her a troop of dogs, barking and yelping. Be- 
hind the dogs rode on horseback one whose face I saw not any 
more than that of the girl. He cursed and swore (I knew the 
voice, but could not tell, in my dream, to whom it belonged), 
.and cracked a horrid whip and encouraged the dogs, lashing 
the laggards. In his eyes (though his face was in some kind 
of shadow), there was such a look as I remember in Benj amines 
when he put the ring upon my finger — a look of resolute and 
hungry wickedness, which made me tremble and shake. 

Now, as I looked, the dogs still gained upon her who ran, 
and screamed as if in a few moments they would spring upon 
her and tear her fiesh from her bones. Then suddenly be- 
tween her who ran and those who pursued there arose an awful 
form. He was clad in white and in his hand he bore a sword, 
and he turned upon that hunter a face filled with wrath. 
Lightnings shot from his eyes and a cloud, of thunder lay upon 
his brow. At the sight of that face the dogs stopped in their 
running, cowered, and fell dead. And at the dreadful aspect 
of that face the hunter^s horse fell headlong, and his rider, 
falling also with a shriek of terror, broke his neck, and so lay 


22 i 


FOE FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


prostrate and dead. Then this dreadful minister of God^s 
wrath turned from him to the flying figure, and lo! his face 
was now transformed; his eyes became soft and full of love; 
he smiled graciously; a crown of glory was upon his head; 
white robes flowed downward to his feet; his fiery sword was a 
palm branch; he was the Angel of Consolation. Have no 
more fear/^ he said, ‘^though the waves of the sea rise up 
against thee and the winds threaten to drown thee in the deep. 
Among the ungodly and the violent thou shalt be safe; in all 
times of peril the Lord will uphold thee; earthly joy shall be 
t li i ne. Be steadfast unto the end. ^ 

And then I looked again, those blessed words ringing in my 
ears, and behold! I saw then, which I had not seen before, 
that the flying figure was none other than myself; that he who 
cruelly hunted after with the dogs and the whip was none 
other than my husband; and, that the Angel of Wrath, who 
became the Angel of ConsolatioUj was none other than my 
father himself. But he was glorified! Oh, the face was his 
face — that any one could see; but it was changed with some- 
thing — I know not what — so far brighter and sweeter than the 
earthly face that I marveled. Then the Vision disappeared, 
and I awoke. 

So bright anfi clear had it been that I seemed to see it still, 
though I was sitting up with my eyes open and it was night. 
Then it slowly vanished. Henceforth, however, I was assured 
of two things: first, that no harm would happen unto me, but 
that I should be protected from the malice of my enemies, 
whatever they might design (indeed, I had but one enemy — to 
wit, the man who had that morning sworn to love and cherish 
me); and next, that I had seen with mortal eyes what, indeed, 
hath been vouchsafed to few, the actual spiritual body — the 
glorified body, like to the earthly but changed — with which 
the souls of the Elect are clothed. 

So I arose now without the least fear. It was night, but in 
the East there showed the first gray of the dawn, and the birds 
were already beginning to twitter as if they were dreaming of 
the day. The wind was fresh, and I was lightly clad, but the 
splendor of the Vision made me forget the cold. Oh, I had 
received a Voice from Heaven! How could I henceforth fear 
anything? Nay, there was no room even for grief, though 
those terrible things had fallen upon nie, and I was now alone 
and friendless, and the world is full of ungodly men. 

It must have been about half past four in the morning. It 
grew lighter fast, so that not only the trees became visible, but 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


225 


the black depths between them changed into glades and under- 
wood^ and I could see my way down the coomb beside the 
stream. Then, without waiting for the sun to rise, which he 
presently did in great warmth and splendor, I started, hoping 
to get into Taunton before the people were up and the streets 
became crowded. But I did not know the distance, which 
must have been seven miles at least, because it was nearly 
eight o^clock when I reached the town, having followed the 
course of the stream through three villages, which I have since 
learned must have been those of Pitminster, Troll, and 
Wilton. 

It was market-day, and the streets were full of country peo- 
ple — some of them farmers with bags of corn in their hands, 
going to the corn-market, and some with carts full of fresh 
frnifc and other things. Their faces were heavy and sad, and 
they talked in whispers, as if they were afraid. They had, in- 
deed, good cause for fear; for the prison held over five hun- 
dred unfortunate men waiting for their trial, and the terrible 
judge was already on his way, with his carts filled with more 
prisoners rumbling after him. Already Colonel Kirke had 
caused I knew not how many to be hanged, and the reports of 
what had been done at Dorchester and Exeter sufficiently pre- 
pared the minds of the wretched prisoners at Taunton for 
what was about to be done there. Among them was the un- 
fortunate Captain Hucker, the serge-maker, who had looked 
for a peerage, and was now to receive a halter. There was 
also among them that poor man, Mr. Simon Hamlyn, who was 
hanged only for riding into Taunton in order to dissuade his 
son from joining Monmouth. This the Mayor of Taunton 
pointed out to the blood-thirsty judge, but in vain. The whole 
five hundred prisoners were, in the end, sentenced to death, and 
one hundred and forty-five actually suffered, to the great indig- 
nation of those who looked on, even of the king^s party. Nay, 4k 
at one of the executions, when nineteen were hanged at the 
same time, and a great fire was made so that the sufferers 
might actually see before their death the fire that was to burn 
their bowels, the very soldiers wept, saying that it was so sad 
a tiling they scarce knew how to bear it. Three 3^ears later 
the hard heart of the king met.. with its proper punishment. 

The soldiers were among the crowd, some leaning against 
bulkheads, some drinking at the ale-houses, some haggling for 
the fruit; some were also exercising upon Castle Green. They 
looked good-natured, and showed in their faces none of the 
cruelty and rage which belonged to their officers. But what a 
doleful change from the time when Monmouth ^s soldiers filled 


226 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


the town, and all hearts were full of joy and every face shone 
with happiness! What a change, indeed! 

As I passed among the crowd, one caught me by the arm. 
It was a little old woman, her face all wrinkled and puckered. 
She was sitting on a stool beside a great basket full of apples 
and plums, and a little pipe of tobacco within her lips. 

‘‘ Mistress, she whispered, taking the pipe from her 
mouth, thou wert with the maids the day of the Flags; 
I remember thy pretty face. What dost thou here abroad 
among the people? The air of Taunton town is unwholesome! 
There may be others who will remember thee as well as I. 
Take an old woman ^s advice, and get thee gone. How fares 
it with thy father, the worthy Dr. Eykin?^^ 

Alas!^^ I said, ‘‘ he died in Ilminster Jail.^^ 

^Tis pity. But he was old and pious; he hath gone to 
glory. Whither will those poor lads in the jail go when they 
are hanged? Get thee gone, get thee gone! The air is already 
foul with dead men^s bodies; they tell strange stories of what 
hath been done by women for the safety of their brothers. 
Get thee gone, pretty maid, lest something worse than prison 
happen to thee. And Judge Jeffreys is coming hither like the 
devil, having much wrath. 

I could not tell her that nothing would happen to me be- 
cause I was protected by a heavenly guard. 

I was in the town forty years agone,^"^ the old woman went 
on, when Blake defended it, and we were well-nigh starved. 
But never have I seen such things as have been done here 
since the duke was routed. Get thee gone! — haste away, as 
from the mouth of hell! — get thee gone, poor child !^'^ 

So I left her and went on my way, hanging my head, in 
hopes that no one else would recognize me. Fortunately, no 
one did, though I saw many faces which I had seen in the 
Hown before. They were then tossing their caps and shouting 
for Monmouth, but were now gloomily whispering, as if every 
man feared that his own turn would come next. Over the 
great gate-way of the castle was stuck up a high row of heads, 
arms, and legs of rebels blackened with pitch — a horrid sig];it. 
Unto this end had come those brave fellows who went forth to 
dethrone the king. No one noticed or accosted me, and I 
arrived safely at Susan^s house. The door seemed shut, but 
when I pushed I found that it was open — the lock having been 
broken from its fastening. Barnaby did that, I remembered. 
I went in, shutting it after me. No doubt Susan was with her 
children in the school-room. Strange that she should not re- 
pair her lock, and that at a time when the town was full of 




I 


von FAITH AKt) FKEEBOM. 23? 

soldiers, who always carry with them their riotous and lawless 
followers. '^Twas unlike her orderly housekeeping. 

There was no one in the back parlor, where Susan commonly 
took her meals and conducted the morning and evening pray- 
ers. The dishes were on the table, as if of last night^s supper 
or yesterday^s dinner. This was, also, unlike a tidy house- 
wife. I opened the door of the front parlor. Though it was 
already past the hour for school, there were no children in the 
room; the lesson-books and copying-books and slates lay about 
the floor. What did this untidy litter mean? Then I went 
upstairs and into the bedrooms, of which there were three, 
namely, two on the floor above and one a garret. No one was 
in them, and the beds had not been made. There remained 
only the kitchen. No one was there. The house was quite 
empty; I observed also that the garden, which was wont to be 
kept with the greatest neatness, now looked neglected; the 
ripe plums were dropping from the branches trained upon the 
wall; the apples lay upon the grass; the flower-beds were 
cumbered with weeds; grass grew in the walks; the lawn, 
which had been so neat and trim, was covered with long grass. 

What had happened? Where was Susan? Then I seemed 
to hear her voice above chanting God for the victory, as she 
had done when Barnaby burst in upon us, and I heard her 
singing a hymn with the children, as she had done while we 
all sat embroidering the flags. Oh, the pretty flags! And oh, 
the pretty sight of the innocents in white and blue carrying 
those flags! The house was fllled with the sounds of by-gone 
happiness. Had I stayed another moment I am certain that 
I should have seen the ghosts of those who filled the rooms in 
the happy days when the army was in the town. But I did 
not stay. Not knowing what to do or whither to fly, I ran 
quickly out of the house, thinking only to get away from the 
mournful silence of the empty and deserted rooms. Then, as 
I stepped into the street, I met, face to face, none other than 
Mr. George Penne, the kind-hearted gentleman who had com- 
passionated the prisoners at Ilminster. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

^Tis no other than the Pair Maid of Ilminster !^^ said Mr. 
Penne, with surprise. Madame, with submission, is it safe 
— is it prudent — for one who walked with the Maids of Taun- 
ton on a certain memorable day to venture openly into the 
streets of this city at such a time? Judge Jeffreys doth ap- 


228 , 


FOK FAITH AKD FKEEDOM. 


proach to hold his court. Thy friends are in prison or in | 
hiding. The 'maids are scattered all. 

I sought shelter/^ I said, at the house of Susan Blake, ^ 
the school-mistress.''^ 

How? You have not heard, then? Miss Susan Blake is 
dead."^ 

She is dead?^^ 

She died in Dorchester Jail, whither she was sent, being 
specially exempted from any pardon. "Twas fever carried her } 
olf. She is dead. Alas! the waste of good lives! She might % 
have bought her freedom after awhile, and then — but — well, ? 
Tis useless to lament these mishaps."^ 5 

Alas! alas!^^ I cried, wringing my hands, then am I in ^ 
evil plight, indeed! All, all are dead! — all my friends are i 
dead!^-' ;| 

Madame,^^ he replied, very kindly, not all your friends, ^ 
if I may say so. I have, I assure you, a most compassionate J 
heart. I bleed for the sufferings of others; I can not rest until | 
I have brought relief. This is my way. Oh, I am so consti- | 
tuted; I am not proud or uplifted on this account. Only tell I 
me your case; intrust your safety to me. You may do so safe- ] 
ly, if you reflect for one moment, because — see — one word- j 
from me and you would be taken to prison by yon worthy j 
clergyman, who is none other than the Kev. Mr. Walter ' 
Harte, the Eector of Taunton. No one is more, active against 
the reliels, and he would rejoice in committing thee on the 
charge of having been among the maids. A word from me 
would, I say, cause you to be hauled to jail, but, observe, I 
do not speak that word— God forbid that I should speak that 
word!^^ 

Oh, sir,^^ I said, this goodness overwhelms me.^^ 

‘^Then, madame, for greater privacy, let us go back into 
the house and converse there. 

So we went back into the empty house, and sat in the back 
parlor. 

As for the nature of your trouble, madame, he began, 

I hope you have no dear brothers or cousins among those 
poor fellows in Taunton Jail.^^ 

No, sir; my only brother is at Ilminster, and my cousins 
are far away in New England."^ 

That is well. One who, like myself, is of a compassionate 
disposition, can not but bewail the grievous waste in jail-fever, 
small-pox, scarlet fever, or putrid throat, to say nothing of the 
hangings, which now daily happen in the prison. What doth 
it avail to hang and quarter a man, when he might be usefully 


FOR FAITH AKD FREEDOM. 


229 


set to work upon his majesty^s plantations? It is a most sin- 
ful and foolish waste, I say — he spoke with great sincerity 
and warmth — and a robbing of the pockets of honest mer- 
chants. 

‘^ Indeed, sir/^ I said, your words prove the goodness of 
your heart. 

Let my deeds, rather than my words, prove that. How 
fare the prisoners with whom you are most concerned 

Alas! Sir Christopher is dead, and my father hath also 
died of his wound. 

So? — indeed? More waste! They are dead. More waste. 
But one was old; had Sir Christopher been sent to the planta- 
tions his value would have been but small, though, indeed, a 
ransom — but he is dead, and your father, being wounded — but 
they are dead, and so no more need be said. There are, how- 
ever, others, if I remember aright ?^^ 

There is my brother^ in Ilminster Prison, and — 

Yes; the two young gentlemen— Challis is their name — in 
Exeter. I have seen them and conversed with them. Strong 
young men, especially one of them. ^Tis sad indeed to think 
that they may be cut off in the very bloom of their age, when 
they would command so high a price in Jamaica or Barbadoes. 
I ventured to beg before their trial that they would immediate- 
ly begin to use whatever interest they might be able to com- 
mand in order to get their sentence, which was certain, com- 
muted. Many will be suffered to go abroad — why not these 
young gentlemen? But they have no interest, they assured 
me, and therefore I fear that they will die. -^Tis most sad. 
They can not hang all — that is quite true, but then these 
young gentlemen were officers in the army, and therefore an 
example will be made of them if they have no interest at 
court. 

Well, sir,^^ I told him, pleased to find him of such a kind- 
ly and thoughtful disposition, you will be glad to hear that 
they are already pardoned, and have been presented by the 
king to a gentleman ^t court. 

‘‘ Aha! Sayest thou so?^^ His eyes glittered, and he 
rubbed his hands. This is, indeed, joyful news. One of 
them, Mr. Eobin Challis, is a goodly lad, like to whom there 
are few sent out to the plantations. He will certainly fetch a 
good price. The other, Mr. Humphrey, who is somewhat 
crooked, will go for less. Who hath obtained the gift of these 
young gentlemen?^ ^ 

It is a person named Mr. Nipho.^^ 

Mr. Jerome Nipho. I know him well. He is a good 


230 


FOE FAITH AKI> FKEEDOM, 


Catholic — I mean a Papist — and is much about the court. He 
is lucky in having had many prisoners given to him. And 
now, madame, I hope you will command my services. 

In what way, sir?^^ 

In this way. I am, as I have told you — here he wagged 
his head and winked both eyes, and laughed pleasantly — ‘^one 
of those foolish busybodies who love to be still doing good to 
their fellow-creatures. To do good is my whole delight. Un- 
fortunately, the opportunities are rare of conferring exemplary 
benefit upon my fellow-men. But here the way seems clear. 

He rubbed his hands and laughed again, repeating that the 
way was clear before him, so that I believed myself fortunate 
in falling in with so virtuous a person. 

Oh, sir/’ I cried, would that the whole world would so 
live and so act!^^ 

Truly if it did we should have the prisons cleared. There 
should be no more throwing away of good lives in hanging; no 
more waste of stout fellows and lusty wenches by fever and 
small-pox. All should go to the plantations — all. Now, 
madame, to our business, which is the advantage of these 
young gentlemen. Know, therefore, that Mr. Jerome Nipho, 
with all those who have received presents of prisoners, straight- 
way sell them to persons who engage to transport them across 
the seas to his majesty’s plantations in Jamaica, Virginia, or 
elsewhere. Here they are bound to work for a certain teim of 
years. Call it not work, however,” he added, quickly; say 
rather that they are invited every day to exercise themselves iu 
the cotton and the sugar fields. The climate is delightful; the 
sky is seldom clouded; there are never any frosts or snows; it 
is always summer; the fruits are delicious; they have a kind 
of spirit distilled from the sugar-canes, which is said to be finer 
and more wholesome than the best Nantz; the food is palatable 
and plentiful, though plain. The masters or employers, call 
them rather friends, are gentlemen of the highest humanity, 
and the society is composed of sober merchants, wealthy 
planters, and gentlemen, like your brother, who have had the 
misfortune to differ in opinions with the government.” 

‘‘Why, sir,” I said, "‘I have always understood that the 
transported prisoners are treated with the greatest inhumanity; 
forced to work in heat such as we never experience, driven with 
the lash, and half starv^ed, so that none ever come back.” 

He shook his head gently. “See now,” he said, “how 
prejudices arise. Who could have thought that the planta- 
tions should be thus regarded? ’Tis true that there are estates 
cultivated by convicts of another kind — I mean robbers, high' 


FOE FAITH AKD FREEDOM. 


231 


waymen, petty thieves, and the like. Bristol doth every year 
send away a ship-load at least of such. Nay; ^tis reported 
that rather than hang murderers and the like, the Bristol 
merchants buy them of the magistrates, but this is out of the 
kindness of their hearts. Madame, he thrust his hand into 
his bosom and looked me in the face, I myself am sometimes 
engaged in that trade. I myself buy these unhappy prisoners, 
and send them to estates where, I know, they will be treated 
'^ith the greatest kindness. Do I look like a dishonest man, 
madame? My name it is George Penne, and I am known by 
every man of credit in Bristol. Do I talk like one who would 
make money out of his neighbors^ sufferings? Nay, if that is 
so, let us part at once and say no more. Madame, your hum- 
ble servant — no harm is done; your humble servant, madame. 
He put his hat under his arm, and made as if he would go, 
but I begged him to remain, and to advise me further in the 
matter. 

Then I asked him if transported persons ever came home 
again. 

Surely, he replied; some of them come home laden 
with gold. Some, possessed of places both of honor and of 
profit, return to visit their friends, and ‘ then go back to the 
new country. It is a very Eldorado, or land of gold, to those 
who are willing to work, and for those who have money and 
choose to buy exemption from work it is only an agreeable 
residence in cheerful society for a certain term of years. Have 
you, by chance, madame, any friends who can influence Mr. 
Jerome Nipho?^^ 

^^No, sir; I have none.^^ 

Then will I myself communicate with that gentleman. 
Understand, madame, that I shall have to pay him so much a 
head for every prisoner; that I shall be engaged to place every 
man on board ship; that the prisoners will then be taken 
across the seas and again sold. But in the case of those who 
have money, a ransom can be procured, by means of which 
they will not have to work. 

So far as he had spoken in the belief that I was at Taunton 
on my brother's business, or that of my friends. I told him, 
therefore, that certain events had occurred which would pre- 
vent me from seeing the prisoners at Exeter. And because I 
could not forbear from weeping while I spoke, he very earnest- 
ly begged me to inform him fully in every particular as to my 
history, adding that his benevolence was not confined to the 
unhappy case of prisoners, but that it was ready to be extended 
in any other direction that happy chance might offer. 


232 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


Therefore, being, as you have seen, so friendless and so 
ignorant, and so fearful of falling into my husband^s hands, 
and, at the same time, so grateful to this good man for his 
kindly offers, indeed, I took him for an instrument provided 
by Heaven for the safety promised in my vision of the night, 
that I told him everything exactly, concealing nothing. Nay, 
I even told him of the bag of gold which I had tied round my 
waist — a thing which I had hitherto concealed, because the 
money was not mine, but Barnaby^s. But I told it to Mr. 
Penne. 

While I related my history he interrupted me by frequent 
ejaculations, showing his abhorrence of the wickedness with 
which Benjamin compassed his design, and when I finished he 
held up his hands in amazement. 

^^Good God!’^ he cried. That such a wretch should live! 
'Phat he should be allowed still to cumber the earth! What 
punishment were fitting for this devil in the shape of man? 
Madame, your case is, indeed, one that would move the heart 
of Nero himself. What is to be done?^^ 

Nay — that I know not. For if I go back to our village he 
will find me there, and if I find out some hiding-place he will 
seek me out and find me; I shall never know rest or peace 
again. For of one thing, am I resolved — I will die — yea, I 
will, indeed, die — before I will become his wife more than I 
am at present.-’^ 

I can not. commend that resolution, madame. But, to be 
plain with you, there is no place in the world more unsafe for 
you than Taunton at this time. Therefore, if you please, I 
will ride with you to Bristol without delay. ^ ’ 

Sir, I can not ask this sacrifice of your business. 

My business lies at Bristol. I can do no more here until 
J udge Jeffreys hath got through his hangings, of which I fear 
there may be many, and so more sinful waste of good convicts. 
Let us, therefore, hasten away as quickly as may be; as for 
what shall be done afterward that we will consider on the 
way.'’^ 

Did ever a woman in misfortune meet with so good a man? 
The Samaritan himself was not of better heart. 

Well, to be brief, half an hour afterward we mounted and 
rode to Bristol, by way of Bridgewater, this town was even 
more melancholy than Taunton, taking three days — the 
weather being now wet and raining, so that the ways were 
bad. Now, as we rode along — Mr. Penne and 1— -side by side, 
and his servant behind, armed with a blunderbuss, our conver- 
sation was grave, turning chiefly on the imprudence of the 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


233 


people in following Monmouth, when they should have waited 
for the gentry to lead the way. I found my companion, whom 
I held to be my benefactor, sober in manners and in conver- 
sation; no drunkard; no user of profane oaths; and toward 
me, a woman whom he had, so to say, in his own power, he 
behaved always with the greatest,ceremony and politeness. So 
that I hoped to have found in this good man a true protector. 

When we reached Bristol he told me that for my better 
safety he would lodge me apart from his own house; and so 
took me to a house in Broad Street, near St. Johh^s Gate, 
where there was a most respectable old lady of grave aspect, 
though red in the cheeks. 

I have brought you, madame,^^ he said, to the house 
of a lady whose virtue and piety are well known. 

Sir,^^ said the old lady, this house is well known for the 
piety of those who use it. And everybody knows that you are 
all goodness./^ 

No,^^ said Mr. Penne; ^^no man is good. We can but 
try our best. In this house, however, madame, you will be 
safe. I beg and implore you not at present to stir abroad, for 
reasons which you very well know. This good woman has 
three or four daughters in the house, who are sometimes, I 
believe, merry — 

“ Sir,"’"’ said the old lady, children will be foolish.''^ 

True — true,^^ he replied, laughing. Take care, then, 
that they molest not madame. 

No, sir; they shall nof^ 

Then, madame, for the moment I leave you. Rest and 
be easy in your mind. I have, I think, contrived a plan which 
will answer your case perfectly. 

In the evening he returned and sent me word, very cere- 
moniously, that he desired the favor of a conversation with 
me. As if there could be anything in the world that I desired 
more. 

Madame, he said, I have considered carefully your 
case, and I can find but one advice to give. 

What is it, sir?^^ ^ 

‘‘ We might, he went on, find a lodging for you in some 
quiet Welsh town across the Channel. At Chepstow, for in- 
stance, or at Newport, you migjit find a home for awhile. 
But, the country being greatly inflamed with dissensions, there 
would everywhere be the danger of some fanatical busybody 
inquiring into your history — whence you came, why you left 
your friends, and so forth. And, again, in every town there 
are women, saving your presence, madame, whose tongues 


234 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM, 


tittle-tattle all day long. Short work they make of a stranger. 

So that I see not much safety in a small town. Then again 
you might find a farm-house where they would receive you, 
but your case is not that you wish to be hidden for a time, as 
one implicated in the Monmouth business. Not so; you desire 
to be hidden all your life, or for the whole life of the man who, 
if he finds you, may compel you to live with him, and to live 
for — how long? Sixty years, perhaps, in a dull and dirty 
farm-house, among rude boors, would be intolerable to a per- 
son of your manners and accomplishments.^^ 

Then, sir, in the name of Heaven — for I began to be 
wearied with this lengthy setting up of plans only to pull them 
down again — what shall I do?^^ 

You might go to London. At first I thought that London 
offered the best hope of safe retreat. There are parts of Lon- 
don where the gentlemen of the robe are never seen, and 
where you might be safe. Thus, about the eastern parts of 
the city there are never any lawyers at all. There you might 
be safe. But yet — it would be a perpetual risk. Your face, 
madame, if I may say so, is one which will not be quickly for- 
gotten when it hath once been seen — you would be per- 
secuted by would-be lovers; you would go in continual terror, 
knowing that one you fear was living only a mile away 
from you. You would have to make up some story to main- 
tain which would be troublesome; and presently the time 
would come when you would have no more money. What, 
then, would you do?^^ 

Pray, sir, if you can tell, jne what you think I should do, 
since there are so many things that I caiji not do.-^^ 

Madame, I am going to submit to you a plan which seems 
to me at once the safest and the best. You have, you tell me, 
cousins in the town of Boston which is in New England. 

Yes. I have heard my father speak of his cousins. 

I have myself visited that place, and have heard mention 
of certain Eykins as gentlemen of substance and reputation. 

I propose, madame, that you should go to these cousins, and : 
seek a home among them. j 

Leave England? You would have me leave this country ' 
and go across the ocean to America?^ ^ 

That is my advice. Nay, madame — he assumed a most | 
serious manner — do not reject this advice suddenly; sleep 
upon it. You are not going among strangers, but among your 
own people, by whom the name of your pious and learned ; 



FOB FAITH AKH FBEEDOM. 235 

you will be certainly free from persecution. Madame, sleep 
upon it.^^ 


OHAPTEK XXXIIL 

OH BOAKD THE JOLLY THATCHER. 

I LAY awake all night thinking of this plan. The more I 
thought upon it the more I was pleased with it. To fly from 
the country was to escape the pursuit of my husband, who 
would never give over looking for me, because he was so ob- 
stinate and masterful. I should also escape the reproaches of 
my lover, Eobin, and break myself altogether from a passion 
which was now (through my own rashness) become sinful. I 
might also break myself from the loathing and hatred which 
I now felt toward my wicked husband, and might even, in 
time and after much prayer, arrive at forgiving him. At that 
time— yea, and for long afterward— I did often surprise myself 
in such a fit of passion as, I verily believe, would have made 
me a murderess had opportunity or the Evil One sent that 
man my way. Yea, not once or twice, but many times have 
I thus become a murderess in thought and wish and intention 
— I confess this sin with shame, though I have long since re- 
pented of it. To have been so near unto it — nay, to have 
already committed it in my imagination, covers me with shame. 
And now when I sometimes (my Lord, the master of my affec- 
tions, doth allow it) visit the Prison of Ilchester, and find 
therein some poor wretch who hath yielded to temptation and 
sudden wrath (which is the possession by the devil), and so 
hath committed what I only imagined, my heart goes forth to 
that poor creature, and I can not rest until I have prayed with 
her and softened her heart, and left her to go contrite to the 
shameful tree. Xay, since, as you shall hear, I have been 
made to pass part of my life among the most wicked and 
profligate of my sex, I am filled with the thought that the best 
of us are not much better than the worst, and that the worst 
of us are in some things as good as the best; so that there is 
no room for pride and self-sufficiency, but much for humilia- 
tion and distrust of one^s own heart. 

Well, if I would consent to fly from the country, across the 
seas I should find kith and kin who would shelter me. There 
should I learn to think about other things — poor wretch! as if 
I could ever forget the village — and Robin! Oh, that I should 
have to try — even to try — to forget Robin ! I was to learn 
that though the skies be changed, the heart remains the same. 


336 


FOB FAITH AND FEEEDOM. 


How I fled — and whitlier — you shall now hear. 

Mr. George Penne came to see me next morning, sleek and 
smiling and courteous. 

“ Madame/^ he said, ^^may I know your decision, if you 
have yet arrived at one?^^ 

Sir, it is already made. I have slept upon it; I have 
prayed upon it; I will go.^^ 

That is well. It is also most opportune, because a ship 
sails this very day. It is most opportune, I say — even Provi- 
dential. She will drop down the Channel with the coming 
tide. You will want a few things for the voyage. 

It will be winter when we. arrive, and the winters in that 
country are cold; I must buy some thicker clothing. Will 
there be any gentlewoman on board 

Surely — he smiled — ‘‘surely. There will.be, I am 
told, more than one gentlewoman on board that ship. There 
will be, in fact, a large and a cheerful company. Of that you 
may be assured. Well, since that is settled, a great load of 
care is removed, because I have heard that your husband rode 
into Taunton with Judge Jeffreys; that he had learned from 
some one — I know not from whom — of your presence in the 
town, and of your departure with me.^^ 

“ It must have been the market-woman.^^ 

“ Doubtless, the market-woman — I have often asked my- 
self' whether this was a falsehood or not — “ and he is even now 
speeding toward Bristol, hoping to find you. Pray Heaven 
that he hath not learned with whom you fied!^^ 

“Oh!^^ I cried. “Let us go on board the ship at once! 
Let us hasten 

“ Nay; there is no hurry for a few hours. But stay within 
doors. Everything that is wanting for the voyage shall be put 
on board for you. As for your meals, you will eat with — 
here he paused for a moment — “ with the rest of the company 
♦under the care of the captain. ^ For your berth, it will be as 
comfortable as can be provided. Next, as to the money. 
You have, I understand, two hundred pounds and more?^^ 

I took the bag from my waist and rolled out the contents. 
There were in all two hundred and forty-five pounds and a few 
shillings. The rest had been expended at Ilminster. 

He counted it carefully, and then replaced the money in the 
bag. 

“ The Bykins of Boston, in New England, he said, “ are 
people of great credit and sulfetance. .There will be no neces- 
sity for you to take with you this mon^ should you wish it to 


FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. 


237 


be expended to the advantage of your brother and your 
friends/^ 

Take it all, kind sir. Take it all, if so it will help them 
in their need. 

Nay, that will not do, either, he replied, smiling, his 
hand upon the bag. For first, the captain of your ship must 
be paid for his passage; next, you must not go among strangers 
(though your own kith and kin) with no money at all in purse. 
Therefore I will set aside (by your good leave) fifty pounds for 
your private purse. So; fifty pounds. A letter to my corre- 
spondent at Boston, which I will write, will cause him to pay 
you this money on your landing. This is a safer method than 
to carry the money in a bag or purse, which may be stolen. 
But if the letter be lost, another can be written. We mer- 
chants, indeed, commonly send three such letters of advice in 
case of shipwreck and loss of the bags. This done, and the 
expenses of the voyage provided, there remains a large sum, 
which, judiciously spent, will, I think, insure for your friends 
from, the outset the treatment reserved for prisoners of ^dis- 
tinction who can afford to pay — namely, on their arrival they 
will be bought (as it is termed) by worthy merchants, who 
(having been previously paid by me) will suffer them to Jive 
where they pleasg, without exacting of them the least service 
or work. Their relatives at home will forward them the means 
of subsistence, and so their exile will be softened for them. If 
you consent thereto, madame, I will engage that they shall be 
so received, with the help of this money. 

If I consented, indeed! With what joy did I give my 
consent to such laying out of my poor Barnaby^’s money! 
Everything now seemed turning to the best, thanks to my 
new and benevolent friend. 

At his desire, therefore, I wrote a letter to Barnaby, recom- 
mending him to trust himself, and to advise Eobin and Hum- 
phrey to trust themselves, entirely to the good offices of this 
excellent man. I informed him that I was about to cross the 
seas to our cousins in New England, in order to escape the 
clutches of the villain who had betrayed me. And then I told 
him how his money had been bestowed, and bade him seek me 
when he should be released from the plantations (wherever 
they might send him) at the town of Boston, among his cous- 
ins. The letter Mr. Penne faithfully promised to deliver. 
(Nota bene. — The letter was never given to Barnaby.) 

At the same time he wrote a letter for me to give to his cor- 
respondent at Boston, telling me that on reading that letter 
his friend would instantly pay me the sum of fifty pounds. 


238 


FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. 


Thus was the business concluded, and I could not find words, 
I told him, to express the gratitude which I felt for so much 
goodness toward one who was a stranger to him. I begged 
him to suffer me to repay at least the charges to which he had 
been put at the inns and the stabling since he took me into his 
own care and protection. But he would take nothing. 

Money,^^ he said, as payment for such services as he had 
been enabled to render would be abhorrent to his nature. 
Should good deeds be bought? Was it seemly that a merchant 
of credit should sell an act of common Christian charity?^^ 

What?^^ he asked, are we to see a poor creature in dan- 
ger of being imprisoned if she is recognized, and of being car- 
ried off against her will by a husband whom she loathes, if he 
finds her — are we to see such a woman and not be instantly 
fired by every generous emotion of compassion and indignation 
to help that woman at the mere cost of a few days^ service and 
a few guineas spent? 

I was greatly moved — even to tears — at these words, and at 
all this generosity, and I told him that I could not sufficiently 
thank him for all he had done, and that he should have my 
prayers always. 

I hope I may, madame,^^ he said, smiling strangely. 

When the ship hath sailed you will remember, perhaps, the 
fate of Susan Blake, and, whatever may be your present dis- 
comfort on board a rolling ship, say to yourself that this is bet- 
ter than to die in a noisome prison. You will also understand 
that you have fallen into the hands of a respectable merchant, 
who is much more lenient than Judge Jeffreys, and will not 
consent to the wasting of good commercial stuff in jails and on 
gibbets. 

Nay, sir,^^ I said, what doth all this mean?^^ 

“ Nothing, madame — nothing. I was only anxious that 
you should say to yourself, ^ Thus and thus have I been saved 
from a jail. ^ Such was Mr. Fennels humanity! 

Understand it! Oh! dear sir, I repeat that my words are 
not strong enough to express my gratitude. 

Now, madame, no doubt your gratitude runs high. 
Whether to-morrow — 

Can I ever forget? To-morrow? To-morrow? Surely, 
sir — 

Well, madame, we will wait until to-morrow. Meantime 
lie snug and still all day, and in the afternoon I will come for 
you. Two hundred and forty-five pounds — ^tis not a great 
sum, but a good day^s work — a good day’s work, added to the 


FOR FAITH AKD teFEDOM. 239 

satisfaction of helping a most unfortunate young gentlewoman 
— most unfortunate. 

What did the good man mean by still talking of the mor- 
row? 

At half past twelve the good woman of the house brought 
me a plate of meat and some bread. 

So/"" she said — her face was red, and 1 think she had been 
drinking — he hath determined to put you on board with the 
rest, I hear. 

Hush! If you have heard, say nothing. 

‘^He thinks he can buy my silence. Come, madame; 
though, indeed, some would rather take their chance with 
Judge Jeffreys — they say he is a man who can be moved by 
the face of a woman — than with — well, as for my silence, 
there — It is usual, madame, to compliment the landlady, and 
though, I confess, you are not of the kind which do commonly 
frequent this house, yet one may expect — 

Alas! my good woman, I have nothing. Mr^ Penne has 
taken all my money. 

What? you had money? And you gave it to Mr. Penne? 
You gave it to him? Nay, indeed; why, in the place where 
thou art going — 

She was silent, for suddenly we heard Mr. Penne^s step out- 
side, and he opened the door. 

Come,^^ he said, roughly; the captain says that he will 
weigh anchor in an hour; the tide serves — come!’^ 

I hastened to put on my hat and mantle. 

Farewell, I said, taking the old woman^s hand. I have 
nothing to give thee but my prayers. Mr. Penne, who is all 
goodness, will reward thee for thy kindness to me. 

. He all goodness?'’^ asked th6 old woman. He? Why, 
if there is upon the face of the whole earth — 

Come, child !^^' Mr. Penne seized my hand and dragged me 
away. 

The woman, he said, hath been drinking. It is a bad 
habit she hath contracted of late. I must see into it, and 
speak seriously to her; but a good nature at heart. Come, 
we must hasten. You will be under the special care of the 
captain. I have provided a box full of warm clothing and 
other comforts. I think there is nothing omitted that may be 
of use. Come.'’^ 

He hurried me along the narrow streets until we came to a 
quay, where there were a great number of ships such as I had 
never before seen. On one of them the sailors were running 
about clearing away things, coiling ropes, tossing sacks and 


240 


FOE FAITH AHD FEFEHOM. 


casks aboard, with such a Yo-hoing!^’ and noise as I never 
in my life heard before. 

^Tis our ship/^ said Mr. Penne. Then he led me along a 
narrow bridge, formed by a single plank, to the deck of the 
ship. There stood a gentleman of a very fierce and resolute 
aspect, armed with a sword, hanging from a scarlet sash, and 
a pair of pistols in his belt. Captain, said Mr. Penne, 

are all aboard 

Ay; we have all our cargo. And a pretty crew they are! 
Is this the last of them? Send her forward. 

Madame, said Mr. Penne, suffer me to lead you to a 
place where, until the ship sails and the officers have time to 
take you to your cabin, you can rest and be out of the way. 
It is a rough assemblage, but at sailing one has no choice. 

Gathered in the fore-part of what they call the waist there 
was a company of about a hundred people. Some were young, 
some old; some were men, some women; some seemed mere 
children. All alike showed in their faces the extreme of 
misery, apprehension, and dismay. 

Who are these I asked. 

They will tell you themselves presently, madame, fare- 
well.''^ With that Mr. Penne left me standing among this 
crowd of wretches, and, without waiting for my last words of 
gratitude, hurried away immediately. 

I saw him running across the plank to the quay. Then the 
boatswain blew a shrill whistle; the plank was shoved over; 
some ropes were cast loose, and the ship began slowly to move 
down* the river with the tide, now beginning to run out, and a 
wind from the north-east. 

I looked about me. What were all these people? Why were 
they going to New England? Then, as the deck was now 
clearer and the sailqrs, I suppose, at their stations, I ventured 
to walk toward the after-part of the ship, with the intention 
to ask the captain for my cabin. As I did so, a man stood be- 
fore me armed with a great cane, which he brandished, threat- 
ening, with a horrid oath, to lay it across my back if I vent- 
ured any further aft. 

Prisoners forward he cried. Back you go, or, by the 
Lord!--^^ 

Prisoner ?^^ I said. I am no prisoner. I am a passen- 
ger. 

‘^Passenger? Why, as for that, you are all passengers."' 

All? Who are these, then?" 

He informed me with plainness of speech who and what they 




FOR FAITH AHH FREEDOM. " 24l 

were — convicts taken from the prisons^ branded in the hand, 
and sentenced to transportation. 

But I am a passenger/^ I repeated. Mr. Penne hath 
paid for my passage to New England. He hath paid the cap- 
tain — 

The ship is bound for Barbadoes, not New England. ;^Tis 
my duty not to stir from this spot; but here^s the mate — tell 
him. 

This was a young man, armed, like the captain, with pistols 
and sword. 

Sir,^'’ I said, I am a passenger brought on board by Mr. 
Penne, whose passage hath been paid to New England. 

By Mr. George Penne, you say?^^ 

The same. He hath engaged a cabin for me, and hath 
purchased clothes — and — 

‘"Is it possible, said the mate, ""that you do not know 
where you are, and whither you are going?^^ 

"" I am going, under the special care of the captain, to the 
city of Boston, in New England, to my cousin, Mr. Eykin, a 
gentleman of credit and substance of that town.^^ 

He gazed at me with wonder. 

"" I will ^peak to the captain, he said, and left me standing 
there. j . 

Presently he returned. "" Come with me,^^ he said. 

"" You are Grace Eykin said the captain, who had with 
him a paper from which he read. 

"" That is my name. 

"" On a certain day in July, your father being a preacher in 
the army of the Duke of Monmouth, you walked with a pro- 
cession of girls bearing flags which you presented to that 
rebel 

"" It is tTue, sir.^^. 

. ""You have been given by the king to some great lord or 
other, I know not whom, and by him sold to the man Penne, 
who hath put you on board this ship, the " Jolly Thatcher,^ 
port of London, to be conveyed, with a hundred p^dsoners, all 
rogues and thieves, to the island of Barbadoes, where you will 
presently be sold as a servant for ten years; after which period, 
if you choose, you will be at liberty to return to England. 

Then, indeed, the captain before me seemed to reel about, 
and I fell fainting at his feet. 


243 


POE FAITH ANH FEEEDOM. 


CHAPTEE XXXIV. 

THE GOOD SAMAEITAH. 

This was indeed the truth; I had parted with my money on 
the word of a villain; I put myself into his power by telling 
him the whole of my sad story; and, on the promise of send- 
ing me by ship to my cousins in Xew England, he had entered 
my name as a rebel sold to himself (afterward I learned that 
he made it appear as if I was one of the hundred given to Mr. 
Jerome Xipho, all of whom iie afterward bought and sent to 
the plantations), and he had then shipped me on board a ves- 
sel on the point of sailing with as vile a company of rogues, 
vagabonds, thieves, and drabs as were ever raked together out 
of the streets and the prisons. 

When I came to my senses the captain gave me a glass of 
cordial, and made me sit down on a gun-carriage while he 
asked me many questions. I answered them all truthfully, 
concealing only the reason of my flight and of my visit to 
Taunton, where, I told him truly, I hoped to see my unhappy 
friend Miss Susan Blake, of whose imprisonment and death I 
knew nothing. 

Madame, said the captain, stroking his chin, your case 
is indeed a hard one. Yet your name is entered on my list, 
and I must deliver your body at St. Michael’s Port, Barbadoes, 
or account for its absence. This must I do; I have no other 
choice. As for your being sold to Mr. George Penne by Mr. 
Jerome Xipho, this may very well be without your knowing 
even that you had been given to that gentleman by the king. 
They say that the Maids of Taunton have all been given away, 
mostly to the queen’s maids of honor, and must either be re- 
deemed at a great price or be sold as you have been. On the 
other hand, there may be villainy, and in this case it might be 
dangerous for you to move in the matter lest you be appre- 
hended ahd sent to jail as a rebel, and so a worse fate happen 
unto you.” 

He then went on to tell me that this pretended merchant, 
this Mr. George Penne, was the most notorious kidnapper in 
the whole of Bristol; that he was always raking the prisons of 
rogues and sending them abroad for sale on the plantations; 
that at this time he was looking to make a great profit, because 
there were so many prisoners that all could not be hanged, 
but most must be either flogged and sent about their business. 


FOR FAITH AISTD FREEDOM. 


243 


or else sold to him and his hke for servitude. As for any 
money paid for your passage/^ he went on, I assure you, 
madame, upon my honor, that nothing at all has been paid by 
him;' nor has he provided you with any change of clothes or 
provisions of any kind for the voyage; nor hath he asked or 
bargained for any better treatment of you on board than is 
given to the rogues below; and that, madame, he added, is 
food of the coarsest, and planks, for sleep, of the hardest. The 
letter which you have shown me is a mere trick. I do not 
think there is any such person in Boston. It is true, however, 
that there is a family of 'your name in Boston, and that they 
are substantial merchants. I make no doubt that as he hath 
treated you, so he will treat your friends; and that all the 
money which he has taken from you will remain in his own 
pocket. 

‘^Then,^^ I cried, what am I to do? Where look for 
help?^^ 

^Tis the damnedest villain cried the captain, swearing 
after the profane way of sailors. When next I put in at the 
port of Bristol, if , the Monmouth scare be over, I will take care 
that all the world shall know what he hath done. But, in- 
deed, he will not care. The respectable merchants have noth- 
ing to say with him — he is now an open Catholic, who was 
formerly concealed in that religion. Therefore he thinks his 
fortune is at the flood. But what is to be done, madame?^^ 

Indeed, sir, I know not.^^ 

He considered awhile. His face was rough, and colored 
like a ripe pluln with the wind and the sun; but he looked 
honest, and he did not, like Mr. Penne, pretend to shed tears 
over my misfortunes. 

Those who join rebellions,^^ he said, but not unkindly, 

generally find themselves out in their reckoning in the end. 
What the deuce have gentlewomen to do with the pulling down 
of kings? I warrant, now, you thought you were doing a 
grand thing, and so you must needs go 'talking with those 
pretty fools the Maids of Taunton! Well, ^tis past praying 
for. George Penne is such a villain that keel-hauling is too 
good for him. Flogged through the fleet at Spithead he 
should be. Madame, I am not one who favors rebels; yet you 
can not sleep and mess with the scum down yonder. ^Twould 
be worse than inhuman — their talk and their manners would 
kill you. There is a cabin aft which you can have. The furni- 
ture is mean, but it will be your own while you are aboard. 
You shall mess at my table if you will so honor me. You 
shall have the liberty of the quarter-deck^ I will ^Iso find for 


244 


FOK FAITH ANI) FREEDOM. 


you, if I can, among the women aboard, one somewhat less 
villainous than the rest, who shall be your grumeta, as the 
Spaniards say — your servant, that is — to keep your cabin clean 
and do your bidding. When we make Barbadoes there is no 
help for it, but you must go ashore with the rest and take your 
chance. 

This was truly generous of the captain, and I thanked him 
with all rny heart. He proved as good as his word, for though 
he was a hard man, who duly maintained discipline, flogging 
his prisoners with rigor, he treated me during the whole voy- 
age with kindness and pity, never forgetting daily to curse the 
name of George Penne and drink to his confusion. 

The voyage lasted six weeks. At first we had rough weather 
with heavy seas and rolling waves. Happily I was not 'made 
sick by the motion of the ship, and could always stand upon 
the deck and look at the waves (a spectacle, to my mind, the 
grandest in the whole world). But, I fear, there was much 
suffering among the poor wretches — my fellow-prisoners. 
They were huddled and crowded together b^lowthe deck; they 
were all seasick; there was no doctor to relieve their suffer- 
ings, nor were there any medicines for those who were ill. 
Fever presently broke out among them, so that we buried nine 
in the first fortnight of our voyage. After this, the weather 
growing warm and the sea moderating, the sick mended rapid- 
ly, and soon all were well again. 

I used to stand upon the quarfcer-deck and look at them 
gathered in the waist below. Never had I seen such a com- 
pany. They came, I heard, principally from London, which 
is the rendezvous or head-quarters of all the rogues in the coun- 
try. They were all in rags — had any one among them possessed 
a decent coat it would have been snatched from his back the 
very first day; they were dirty from the beginning; many of 
them had cuts and wounds on their heads gotten in their fights 
and quarrels, and these were bound about with old clouts; 
their faces were nol^ fresh-colored and rosy, like the faces of 
our honest country lads, but pale, and sometimes covered with 
red blotches, caused by their evil lives and their hard drink- 
ing; on their foreheads was clearly set the seal of Satan. Never 
did I behold wickedness so manifestly stamped upon the hu- 
man countenance. They were like monkeys for their knavish 
and thievish tricks. They stole everything that they could lay 
hand upon; pieces of rope, the sailors^ knives when they could 
get them, even the marline-spikes if they were left about. When 
they were caught and flogged they would make the ship terri- 
ble with their shrieks, being cowards as prodigious as they 


FOR FAITH ANI) FREEDOM. 


24:6 

were thieves. They lay about all day ragged and dirty on 
deck, in the place assigned to them, stupidly sleeping, or else 
silent and dumpish, except for some of the young fellows who 
gambled with cards — I know not for what stakes — and quar- 
reled over the game and fought. It was an amusement among 
the sailors to make these lads fight on the forecastle, promis- 
ing a pannikin of rum to the victor. For this miserable prize 
they would fight with the greatest fury and desperation, even 
biting one another in their rage, while the sailors clapped their 
hands and encouraged them. Pity it is that the common sort 
do still delight themselves with sport so brutal. On shore 
these fellows would be rejoicing in coe*k-fights and bull-bait- 
ings; on board they baited the prisoners. 

There were among the prisoners twenty or thirty women, 
the sweepings of the Bristol streets. They, too, would fight as 
readily as the men, until” the captain forbade it under penalty 
of a** flogging. These women were to the full as wicked as the 
men; nay, their language Was worse, insomuch that the very 
sailors would stand aghast to hear the blasphemies they uttered, 
and would even remonstrate with them, saying, Nan,^^ or 

Poll — they were all Polls and Nans — Tis enough to cause 
the ship to be struck with lightning! Give over, now! Wilt 
sink the ship’s company with your foul tongue?” But the 
promise of a flogging kept them from fighting. Men, I flunk, 
will brave anything for a moment’s gratification; but not even 
the most hardened woman will willingly risk the pain of the 
whip. 

The captain told me that of these conyicts, of whom every 
year whole ship-loads are taken to Virginia, to Jamaica, and 
to Barbadoes, not one in a hundred ever returns. For,” ho 
said, the work exacted frbm them is so severe, with so much 
exposure to a burning sun, and the fare is so hard, that they 
fall into fevers and calentures. And besides the dangers from 
the heat and the bad food, there is a drink called rum or 
arrack, which is distilled from the juice of the sugar-cane, and 
another drink called ^ mobbie,’ distilled from potatoes, which 
inflames their blood and causes many to die before their time. 
Moreover, the laws are harsh, and there is too much flogging 
and branding and hanging. So that some fall into despair, 
and in that condition of mind die under the first illness which 
seizes on them.” 

“ Captain,” I said, you forget that I am also to become 
one of these poor wretches.” 

The captain swore lustily that on his return he would seek 
out the villain Penne and break his neck for him. Then he 


246 


i^OR RAlTH AND FBREDOM. 


assured me that the difference between myself and the com- 
mon herd would be immediately recognized; that a rebel is not 
a thief, and must not be so treated; and that I had nothing to 
fear — nay, that he himself would say what he could in my 
favor. But he entreated me with the utmost vehemence to 
send home an account of w'here I was and what I was endur- 
ing to such of my friends as might have either money to relieve 
me from servitude or interest to procure a pardon. Alas! I 
had no friends. Mr. Boscorel, I knew full well, would move 
heaven and earth to help me; but he could not do that with- 
out his son finding out wfiere I was, and this thought so moved 
me that I implored the captain to tell no one who I was or 
what was my history; and for greater persuasion, I revealed to 
him those parts of my history which I had hitherto concealed, 
namely, my marriage, and the reason, of that rash step and my 
flight. 

‘‘ Madame,^^ he said, I would that I had the power of 
avenging these foul wrongs. For them, I swear, I would 
kidnap, both Mr. George Penne and Mr. Benjamin Boscorel; 
and, look you, I would make them mess with the scum and 
the sweepings whom we carry forward; and I would sell them 
to the most inhuman of the planters, by whom they would be 
daily beaten and cuffed and fiogged, or> better still, would 
cause them to be sold at Havana to the Spaniards, where they 
would be employed, as are the English prisoners commonly by 
that cruel people, namely, in fetching water under negro over- 
seers. I leave you to imagine how long they would live, and 
what terrible treatment they would receive. 

So it was certain that I was going to a place where I must 
look for very little mercy, unless I could buy it, and where the 
white servant was regarded as worth so many years of work; 
not so much as a negro, because he doth' sooner sink under the 
hardships of his lot; while the negro continues frolic and 
lusty, and marries and has children, even though he has to toil 
all day in the sun, and is fiogged continually to make him 
work with the greater heart. 

Among the women on board was a young woman, not more 
than eighteen or thereabouts, who was called Deb. She had 
no other name. Her birthplace she knew not; but she had 
run about the country with some tinkers, whose language she' 
said is called Shelta by those people. This she could still 
talk. They sold her in Bristol; after which her history is one 
which, I learn, is common in towns. When the captain bade 
her come to the cabin, and ordered her to obey me in whatso- 
ever I commanded, she looked stupidly at liim, shrinking from 




f 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


247 


him if he moved, as if she was accustomed (which was indeed 
the case) to be beaten at every word. I made her first clean 
herself and wash her clothes. This done, she slept in my 
cabin, and, as the captain promised, became my servant. At 
first she was not only afraid of ill treatment, but she would 
willfully lie; she purloined things and hid them; she told me 
so many tales of her past life, all of them different, that I 
could believe none. Yet when she presently found out that I 
was not going to beat her, and that the captain did never offer 
to cuff or kick her (which the poor wretch expected), she left 
off telling falsehoods, and became as handy, obliging, and 
useful a creature as one could desire. She was a great, strap- 
ping girl, black-eyed and with black hair, as strong as any 
man, and a good-looking creature as well, to those who like 
great women. 

This Deb, when, I say, she ceased to be afraid of me, began 
to tell me her true history, which was, I suppose, only re- 
markable because she seemed not to know that it was shame- 
ful and wicked. She lived, as the people among whom she 
had been brought up lived, without the least sense or knowl- 
edge of God; indeed, no heathen savage could be more with- 
out religion than the tinkers and gypsies on the road. They 
have no knowledge at all; they are born; they live; they die; 
they are buried in a hedge-side, and are forgotten. It was 
surprising to me to find that any woman could grow up in a 
Christian country so ignorant and so uncared-for. In the end 
she showed every mark of penitence, and fell into a godly and 
pious life. 

My captain continued in the same kindness toward me 
throughout the voyage — suffering me to mess at his table, 
where the provisions were plain but wholesome, and encourag- 
ing me to talk to him, taking pleasure in my simple conversa- 
tion. In the mornings, when, with a fair wind and full sail, 
the ship plowed through the water, while the sun was hot over- 
head, he would make me a seat with a pillow in the shade, and 
would then entreat me to tell him about the rebellion and our 
flight to Black Down. Or he would encourage me in serious 
talk (though his own conversation with his sailors was over- 
much garnished with profane oaths), listening with grave face. 
And sometimes he would ask me questions about the village 
of Bradford Orcas, my mother and her wheel. Sir Christopher 
and the rector, showing a wonderful interest in everything that 
I told him. It was strange to see how this man, hard as he 
was with the prisoners (whom it was necessary to terrify, other- 
wise they might mutiny), could be so gentle toward me, a 


248 


FOR FAITH AKI) FREEDOM. 


stranger, and a costly one too, because he was at the expense 
of maintaining me for the whole voyage, and the whole time 
being of good manners, never rude or rough, or offering the 
least freedom or familiarity — a thing which a woman in my 
defenseless position naturally fears. He could not have shown 
more respect unto a queen. 

One evening at sunset, when we had been at sea six weeks, 
he came to me as I was sitting on the quarter-deck and pointed 
to what seemed a cloud in the west. ^Tis the island of 
Barbadoes,^^ he said. To-morrow, if this wind keeps fair, 
we shall make the port of St. Michael’s, which some call the 
Bridge, and then, madame, alas!” — he fetched a deep sigh — 

I must put you ashore, and part with the sweetest companion 
that ever sailed across the ocean. ” 

He said no more, but left me as if he had other things to 
say, but stifled them. Presently the sun went down, and dark- 
ness fell upon the waters; the wind also fell, and the sea was 
smooth, so that there was a great silence. ‘‘ To-morrow,” I 
thought, we shall reach the port, and I shall be landed with 
these wretches, and sent, perhaps, to toil in the fields.” But 
yet my soul was upheld by the vision which had been granted 
to me upon the Black Down Hills, and I feared nothing. This 
I can say without boasting, because I had such weighty reasons 
for the faith that was in me. 

The captain presently came back to me. 

Madame,” he said, suffer me to open my mind to you.” 

Sir,” I told him, there is nothing which I could refuse 
you, saving my honor.” 

I must confess,” he said, I have been torn in twain for 
love of you, madame, ever since you did me the honor to mess 
at my table. Nay, hear me out; and I have been minded a 
thousand times to assure you, first, that your marriage is no 
marriage, and that you have not indeed any husband at all; 
next, that since you can never go back to your old sweetheart, 
’tis better to find another who would protect and cherish you; 
and thirdly, that I am ready — ay, and longing! — now to be- 
come your husband and protector, and to love you with all my 
heart and soul. ” 

‘‘ Sir,” I said, I thank you for telling me this, which in- 
deed I did not suspect. But I am (alas! as you know) already 
married — even though my marriage be no true one — and can 
never forget the love which I still must bear to my old sweet- 
heart. Wherefore I may not listen to any talk of love.” 

If,” he replied, you were a woman after the common 
pattern, you would right gladly cast aside tlie chains of this 


FOR FAITH AKD FREEDOM. 


249 


marriage ceremony. But, madame, you are a saint; therefore 
I refrained. He sighed. ‘‘I confess that I have been 
dragged as by chains to lay myself at your feet. Well, that 
must not be.'’^ He sighed again. Yet I would save you, 
madame, from the dangers of this place. The merchants and 
planters do, for the most part, though gentlemen of good birth, 
lead debauched and ungodly lives, and I fear that, though they 
may spare you the hardships of the field, they may offer you 
other and worse indignities.'’^ 

I answered in the words of David: The Lord hath de- 
livered me out of the paw of the lion, and out of the paw of 
the bear: He will deliver me out of the hand of the Philis- 
tines. 

Nay; but there is a way; you need not land at all. It is 
but a scratch of the pen, and I will enter your name among 
those who died upon the voyage. There will be no more in- 
quiry, any more than after the other names, and then I can 
carry you back with me to the jDort of London, whither I am 
bound after taking in my cargo. 

For a space I was sorely tempted. Then I reflected. It 
would be, I remembered, by consenting to the captain^s treach- 
ery toward his employers, nothing less, that I could escape this 
lot. 

No, sir/^ I said; I thank you from my heart for all your 
kindness and for your forbearance; but we may not consent 
together unto this sin. Again, I thank you; but I must suffer 
what is laid upon me.^^ 

He knelt at my feet and kissed my hands, saying nothing 
more; and presently I went to my cabin, and so ended my 
first voyage across the great Atlantic Ocean. In the morning, 
when I awoke, we were beating off Carlisle Bay, and I felt like 
unto one of those Christian martyrs of whom I have read, 
whom they were about to lead forth and cast unto the lions. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

THE WHITE SLAVE. 

Whek we dropped anchor in the port or road of Carlisle 
Bay we were boarded by a number of gentlemen, who welcomed 
the captain, asked him the news, and drank with him. I 
meantime kept in my cabin, knowing that I must shortly come 
forth; and presently I heard the boatswain^s pipe, and the 
order to all the prisoners to come on deck. Then one knocked 
softly at my door. It was the captain. 


250 


POE FAITH ANH FKEEDOM. 


Madame/’ he said, with a troubled voice, it is not too 
late. Suffer me, I pray you, to enter your name as one of 
those who died on the voyage. It is no great deception; the 
villain Penne will alone be hurt by it; and I swear to take you 
home, and to place you until better times with honest and God- 
fearing people in London. ” 

Oh, sir!’^ I replied, tempt me not, I pray you. Let me 
go forth and take my place among the rest.” 

He entreated me again, but finding that he could not pre- 
vail, he suffered me to come out. Yet such was his kindness 
to the last that he would not place me with the rest, but caused 
his men to give me a chair on the quarter-deck. Then I saw 
that we were all to be sold. The prisoners were drawn up 
standing in lines, one behind the other, the men on one side 
and the women on the other. The hardships of the voyage 
had brought them so low that, what with their rags and dirt, 
and their dull scowls and savage faces, and their thin, pale 
cheeks, they presented a forbidding appearance indeed. 

Three or four gentlemen (they were, I found, planters of 
the island) were examining them, ordering them to lift up 
their arms, stretch out their legs, open their mouths, and in 
short treating them like so many cattle; at which the women 
laughed with ribald words, but the men looked as if they would 
willingly, if they dared, take revenge. 

Faugh!” cried one of the planters. Here is a goodly 
collection indeed! The island is like to become the dust heap 
of Great Britain, where all the rubbish may be shot. Cap- 
tain, how long before these bags of bones will drop to pieces? 
Well, sweet ladies and fair gentlemen — he made a mock 
bow to the prisoners — you are welcome. After the voyage, 
a little exercise will do you good. You will find the air of the 
fields wholesome; and the gentlewomen, I assure you, will dis- 
cover that the drivers and overseers will oblige any who want 
to dance with a skipping-rope. ” 

There were now twenty or thirty gentlemen, all of them 
merchants and planters, on board, and a man stepped forward 
with a book and pencil in hand, who was, I perceived, the 
salesman. 

Gentleman,” he said, ‘‘ this parcel of servants ” (hfe called 
them a parcel, as if they were a bale of dry goods) is con- 
signed to my care by Mr. George Penne, of Bristol, their 
owner. They are partly from that city and j^artly from Lon- 
don, though shipped at the port of Bristol. A tedious voyage, 
following after a long imprisonment in Newgate and Bride- 
well, hath, it is true, somewhat reduced them. But there are 


sou FAITH AKD FREEDOM. 


251 


among them, as you will find on examination, many lusty fel- 
lows and stout wenches, and I doubt not that what you buy 
to-day will hereafter prove good bargains. They are to be 
sold without reserve, and to the highest bidder. Eobert Bull 
— he read the first name on the list — ‘^Eobert Bull, shop- 
lifter. Stand forth, Eobert Bull.'’^ 

There arose from the deck where he had been lying a poor 
wretch who looked as if he could hardly stand, wasted with 
fever and privation., his eyes hollow (yet they looked full of 
wicked cunning). The planters shook their heads. 

‘^Oome, gentlemen, said the salesman, we must not 
judge by appearances. He is at present, no doubt, weak, but 
not so weak as he Jooks. I warrant a smart cut or two of the 
whip would show another man. Who bids for Eobert Bull.^’^ 
He was sold after a little parley for the sum of five pounds. 
Then the speaker called another, naming his offense as a quali-- 
fication. No pillory could be more shameful. Yet the men 
looked dogged, and the women laughed. 

The sale lasted for three or four hours, the prisoners being 
knocked down, as they say, for various sums, the greatest price 
being given for those women who were young and strong. 
The reason, I have been told, is that the women make better 
servants, endure the heat more patiently, do not commonly 
drink the strong spirit which destroys the men, andihough 
they are not so strong, do more work. 

Last of all, the man called my name. Grace Eykin, 
rebel. Stand forth, Grace Eykin.-’’ 

Do not go down among them,” said the captain. Let 
them see at once that yours is no common case. Stand here. ” 
He led me to the top of the ladder or steps which they call 
the companion, leading from" the waist to the quarter-deck. 

Madame,” he said, it will be best to throw back your 
hood.” 

This I did, and so stood before them all bareheaded. 

Oh! ye who are women of gentle nurture, think of such a 
thing as this: to stand exposed to the curious gaze of rough and 
ribald men; to be bought and sold like a horse or an ox at the 
fair! At first my eyes swam, and I saw nothing, and should 
have fallen, but the captain placed his hand upon my arm, 
and so I was steadied. Then my sight cleared, and I could 
look down upon the faces of the men below. There was no 
place whither I could fly and hide. It would be more shame- 
ful still (because it might make them laugh) to burst into 
tears. Why, I thought — why had I not accepted the captain’s 


252 


FOB FAITH AND FBEEDOM. 


offer, and suffered my name do be entered as one of those who 
had died on the voyage and been buried in the sea? 

Down in the waist the gentlemen gazed and gasped in aston- 
ishment. It was no new thing for the planters to buy political 
prisoners. Oliver Cromwell sent over a ship-load of Irishmen 
first, and another ship-load of those engaged in the rising of 
Penruddock and Grove (among them were gentlemen, divines, 
and officers, of whom a few yet survived on the island). But 
as yet no gentlewoman at all had been sent out for political 
reasons. Wherefore, I suppose, they looked so amazed, and 
gazed first at me, and then at one another, and then gasped 
for breath. 

Grace Eykin, gentlemen, said the salesman, who had a 
tongue which, as th^ey say, ran upon wheels, is a young gen- 
tlewoman, the daughter, I am informed, of the Eev. Comfort 
Eykin, Doctor of Divinity, deceased, formerly Eector of Brad- 
ford Orcas, in the County of Somerset, and some time Fellow 
of his college at Oxford, a very learned divine. She hath had 
the misfortune to have taken part in the Monmouth Eebellion, 
and was one of those Maids of Taunton who gave the duke his 
Flags, as you have heard by the latest advices. Therefore she 
is sent abroad for a term of ten years. Gentlemen, there can 
be no doubt that her relations will not endure that this young 
lady — as beautiful as she is unfortunate, and as tender as she 
is beautiful — should be exposed to the same hard treatment as 
the rogues and thieves whom you have just had put up for sale. 
They will, I am privately assured — I heard this statement 
with amazement — “ gladly purchase her freedom, after which, 
unless she is permitted to return, the society of our Colony 
will rejoice in the residence among them of one so lovely and 
so accomplished. Meantime she must be sold like tlie rest.^^ 

Did Monmouth make war with women for his followers?^’ 
asked a gentleman of graver aspect than most. I, for one, 
will have no part or share in such traffic. Are English gentle- 
women^ because their friends are rebels, to be sent into the 
fields with the negroes?^^ 

Your wife would be jealous,^^ said another, and then they 
all laughed. 

I understood not until afterward that the buying and selling 
of such a person as I appeared to be is a kind of gambling. 
That is to say, the buyer hopes to get his profit, not by any 
work that his servant should do, but by the ransom that his 
friends at home should offer. And so they began to bid, with 
jokes rude and unseemly, and much laughter, while I stood 
before them still bareheaded. 


FOR FAITH AKD FREEDOM. 


263 


^^Ten pounds/^ one began; ''Twelve/'’ cried another; 
" Fifteen/'’ said a third; and so on, the price continually ris- 
ing, and the salesman with honeyed tongue continually declar- 
ing that my friends (as he very well knew) would consent to 
give any ransom — any — so only that I was set free from servi- 
t^iide: until, for sixty pounds, no one offering a higher price, I 
was sold to one whose appearance I liked the least of any. He 
was a gross, fat man, with puffed cheeks and short neck, who 
had bought already about twenty of the servants. 

" Be easy,^^ he said, to one who asked him how he looked 
to get his money back. " It is not for twice sixty pounds that 
I will consent to let her go. What is twice sixty pounds for a 
lovely piece like this?^^ 

Then the captain, who had stood beside me, saying nothing, 
interfered. 

"Madame,^ he said, "you can put up your hood again. 
And harkee, sir,^^ he spoke to the planter, " remember that 
this is a pious and virtuous gentlewoman, and — here he swore 
a round oath — " if I hear when I make this port again that 
you have offered her the least freedom, you shall answer to 
me for it. Gentlemen all,^^ he went on, " I verily believe that 
you will shortly have the greatest windfall that hath ever hap- 
pened to you, compared with which the Salisbury Eising was 
but a flea-bite. For the trials of the Monmouth rebels were 
already begun when I left the port of Bristol; and though the 
judges are sentencing all alike to death, they can not hang 
them all — therefore his majesty^s plantations, and Barbadoes 
in particular, will not only have whole cargoes of stout and 
able-bodied servants, compared with whom these poor rogues 
are like so many worthless weeds, but there will also be many 
gentlemen, and perhaps gentlewomen — like madame here — 
whose freedom will be bought of you. So that I earnestly ad- 
vise and entreat you .not to treat them cruelly, but with gen- 
tleness and forbearance, whereby you will be the gainers in the 
end, and will make their friends the readier to find the price 
o:|^ransom.*^ Moreover, you must remember that though gen- 
tlemen may be flogged at whipping-posts, and beat over the 
head with canes, as is your habit with servants both black and 
white, when the time of their deliverance arrives they will be 
no longer slaves, but gentlemen again, and able once more to 
stand upon the point of honor and to run you through the 
body, as you will richly deserve, for your barbarity. And in 
the same way any gentlewomen who may be sent here have 
brothers and cousins who will be ready to perform the same 


254 


FOR FAITH AND FREFHOMe 


act of kindness on their behalf. Eememher that very care- 
fully, gentlemen, if you please.^^ 

The captain spoke to all the gentlemen present, but in the 
last words he addressed himself particularly unto my new mas- 
ter. It was a warning likely to be very serviceable, the plant- 
ers being one and all notoriously addicted to beating and whip- 
ping their servants. And I have no doubt that these words 
did a great deal toward assuring for the unfortunate gentlemen 
who presently arrived such consideration and good treatment 
as they would not otherwise have received. 

The Island of Barbadoes, as many people know, is one of the 
Caribbee Islands. It is, as to size, a small place, not more 
than twenty miles in length by fifteen in breadth, but in popu- 
lation it is a very considerable place indeed, for it is said to 
have as many people in it as the City of Bristol. It is com- 
pletely settled, and of the former inhabitants not one is left. 
They were the people called Indians or Caribs, and how they 
perished I know not. The island hath four ports, of which 
the principal is that of St. Michael, or the Bridge, or Bridge- 
town, in Carlisle Bay. The heat by day is very great, and 
there is no winter, but summer all the year round. There is, 
however, a cool breeze from the sea which moderates the heat. 
A great number of vessels call here every year (there is said to 
be one every day, but this I can not believe). They bring to 
the island all kinds of European manufactures, and take' away 
with them cargoes of Muscovado sugar, cotton, ginger, and 
logwood. The island hath its shores covered with plantations, 
being (the people say) already more thickly cultivated than 
any part of England, with fewer waste places, commons, and 
the like. The fruits which grow here are plentiful and deli- 
cious — such as the pine-apple, the papaw, the guava, the bona- 
now, and the like — but they are not for the servants and the 
slaves. The fertility of the country is truly astonishing; and 
the air, though full of moisture, whereby knives and tools of 
all kinds quickly rust and spoil, is considered more healthy 
than that of any other West Indian island. But for the poor 
creatures who have to toil in the hot sun, the a]r is full of 
fatigue and thirst: it is laden with fevers, calentures, and sun- 
strokes. Death is always in their midst; and after death, 
whatever awaits them, can not, I think, be much worse than 
their condition on the island. 

After the sale was finished the’ captain bade me farewell, 
with tears in his eyes, and we were taken into boats and con- 
veyed ashore, I, for my part, sitting beside my purchaser, who 
addressed no word at all to me. I was, -however, pleased to 


’BOB. FAITH AKD FKEEDOM. 


255 


find that among the people whom he had bought was the girl 
Deb, who had been my maid (if a woman who is a convict may 
have a maid who is a sister convict). When we landed we 
walked from the quay or landing-place to a great building like 
a barn, which is called a barracoon, in which are lodged the 
negro slaves and servants before they go to their masters. But 
at this time it was empty. Hither came presently a certain 
important person in a great wig and a black coat, followed by 
two negro beadles, and carrying a long cane or stick. After 
commanding silence, this officer read to us in a loud voice those 
laws of the Colony which concern servants, and especially those 
who, like ourselves, are transported for various offenses. I 
forget what these laws were; but they seemed to be of a cruel 
and vindictive nature, and all ended with flogging and exten- 
sion of the term of service. I remember, for instance — be- 
cause the thought of escape from a place in the middle of the 
ocean seemed to me mad — that, bj the law, if any one should 
be caught endeavoring to run away, he should be flrst flogged 
and then made to serve three years after his term was expired; 
and that no ship was allowed to trade with the island or to put 
in for water, unless the captain had given security with two in- 
habitants of the island, in the sum of £2,000 sterling, not to 
carry off any servant without the owner^s consent. 

When these laws had been read the officer proceeded, fur- 
ther, to inform us that those who were thus sent out were sent 
to work as a punishment; that the work would be hard, not 
light; and that those who shirked their work, or were negligent 
in their work, would be reminded of their duties in the manner 
common to plantations; that if they tried to run away they 
would most certainly be caught, because the island was but 
small; and that when they were caught, not only would their 
term of years be increased, but they would most certainly re- 
ceive a dreadful number of lashes. He added, further, that as 
nothing would be gained by malingering, sulking, or laziness, 
so, on the other hand, our lot might by lightened by cheerful- 
ness, honesty, and zeal. A more surly, ill-conditioned crew, 1 
think, he must have never before harangued. They listened, 
and on most faces I read the determination to do no more work 
than was forced from them. This is, I have learned, how 
the plantation servants do commonly begin; but the most stub- 
born spirit is not proof against the lash and starvation. There- 
fore, before many days, they are as active and as zealous as can . 
be desired, and the white men,- even in the fields, will do ^ 
double the work that can be got out of the black. 

Then this officer went away, followed by his beadles, who 


266 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


cast eyes of regret upon us^ as if longing to stay and exercise 
their wands of office upon the prisoners^ hacks. This done, we 
were ordered to march out. My master^s horse was waiting 
for him, led by a negro; and two of his overseers, also mount- 
ed and carrying whips in their hands, waited his commands. 
He spoke with them a few minutes, and. then rode away. 

They brought along a cart with a kind of tilt to it, drawn 
by two asses (here they call them assenegoes), and invited me 
courteously to get into it. It was loaded with cases and boxes, 
and a negro walked beside the beasts. Then we set out upon 
our march. First walked the twenty servants — men and 
women — newly bought by the master; after them or at their 
side rode the overseers, roughly calling on the laggards to 
quicken their pace, and cracking their whips horribly. Then 
came the cart in which I sat. The sun was high in the 
heavens, for it was not more than three of the clock; the road 
was white and covered with dust; and the distance was about 
six or seven miles, and we went slowly, so that it was already 
nigh unto sunset when we arrived at the master^s estate. 

Thus was I, a gentlewoman born, sold in the Island of Bar- 
badoes for a slave. Sixty pounds the price I fetched. Oh! 
even now, when it is all passed long since, I remember still 
with shame how I stood upon the quarter-deck, my hood 
thrown back, while all those men gazed upon me, and passed 
their ribald, jests, and cried out the money they would give 
for me! 


CHAPTER XXXVI. ^ 

THE FIRST DAY OF SERVITUDE. "" 

Thus began my captivity. Thus 1 began to sit beside the 
waters of Babylon, more wretched than the daughters of Zion, 
because they wept together, while I wept alone. I looked for 
no release or escape until the Lord should mercifully please to 
call me away by opening the Gate of Death. For even if I 
were released — if by living out the ten years of servitude I 
could claim my freedom, of what use would it be to me? 
Whither could I fly? where hide myself? Yet you shall hear, 
if you will read, how a way, terrible at first and full of peril, 
was unexpectedly opened, and in what strange manner was 
wrought my deliverance. 

We arrived at our new master ^s estate — which was, as I 
have said, about seven miles from the port — toward sundown. 
We were marched (rather, driven) to a kind of village, consist- 


267 


FOR FAITH AKH "FREEDOM. 

ing of a double rovy of huts or cottages, forming a broad street, 
in the middle of which there were planted a large number of 
the fruit trees named here bonanows (they are a kind of plan- 
tain). The green fruit was hanging in clusters, as yet unripe; 
but the leaves, which are also the branches, being for the most 
part blown into long shreds or rags by the wind, had an un- 
tidy appearance. The cottages looked more like pig-sties*for 
size and shape; they were built of sticks, withes, and plantain 
leaves both for sides and for roof. Chimneys had they none, 
nor windows; some of them had no door, but an opening 
only. Thus are housed the servants and slaves of a planta- 
tion. The' furniture within is such as the occupants contrive. 
Sometimes there is a hammock or a pallet with grass mats and 
rugs; there are some simple platters and basins. In each hut 
there are two, three, or four occupants. 

Here let me in brief make an end of describing th^ buildings 
on this estate, which were, I suppose, like those of every other. 
If you were to draw a great square, in which to lay down or 
figure the buildings, you would have in one corner the street 
or village of the people; next to the village lies the great pond 
which serves for drinking-water as well as for washing. The 
negroes are fond of swimming and bathing in it, and they say 
that the water is not fouled thereby, which I could not under- 
stand. In the opposite corner you must place the ingenio,^^ 
or house where the sugar-canes are brought to be crushed and 
ground, and the sugar is made. There are all kinds of ma- 
chines, with great wheels, small wheels, cogs, gutters for run- 
ning the juice, and contrivances which I can not remember. 
Som^ of the ingenios are worked by a windmill, others by 
horses and assenegoes. There is in every one a still where they 
make that fiery spirit which they call kill-devil. Near the 
ingenio are the stables, where there are horses, oxen, assene- 
goes, and the curious beast spoken of in Holy Writ called the 
camel. It hath been brought here from Africa, and is much 
used for carrying the sugar. The open space around the in- 
genio is generally covered and strewed with trash, which is 
the crushed stalk of the cane. It always gives forth a sour 
smell (as if fermenting), which I can not think to be whole- 
some. In the fourth corner is the planter's house. Consider- 
ing that these people sometimes grow so rich that they come 
home and buy great estates, it is wonderful that they should 
consent to live in houses so mean and paltry. They are of 
wood, with roofs so low that one can hardly stand upright in 
them; and the people are so afraid of the cool wind which 
blows from the east that they have neither doors nor windows 


358 


FOE FAITH AND FKEEDOM. 


on that side, bnfc will have them all toward the west, whence 
cometh the chief heat of the sun, namely, the afternoon heat. 
Their furniture is rude, and they have neither tapestry, nor 
wainscoted walls, nor any kind of ornament. Yet they live 
always in the greatest luxury, eating and drinking of the best. 
Some of the houses^ — my master’s among them — have an open 
veranda (as they call it; in Somersetshire we should call it a 
linney) running round three sides of the house, with coarse 
canvas curtains which can be let down so as to keep out the 
sun, or drawn up to admit the air. But their way of living — 
though they eat and drink of the best — is rude, even compared 
with that of our farmers at home; and a thriving tradesman, 
say of Taunton, would scorn to live in such a house as content- 
eth a wealthy planter of Barbadoes. Behind the house was a 
spacious garden, in which grew all kinds of fruits and vegeta- 
bles, and all round the buildings on every side stretched the 
broad fields of sugar-canes, which, when they are • in their 
flower or blossom of gray and silver, wave in the wind more 
beautifully than even a field of barley in England. 

On the approach of our party and the voices of 4ie overseers, 
a gentlewoman (so, at least, she seemed) came out’of the house 
and stood upon the veranda, shading her eyes and looking at 
the gang of wretches. She was dressed splendidly in a silken 
gown and flowered petticoat, as if she was a very great lady 
indeed; over her head lay a kerchief of rich black lace; round 
her neck was a gold chain; when she slowly descended the 
steps of the veranda and walked toward us 1 observed that she 
was of a darker skin than is customary to find at home (it was, 
indeed, somewhat like the skin of the gypsy people); her feat- 
ures were straight and regular; her hair was quite black; her 
eyes were also black and large, shaped like almonds. On her 
wrists were heavy gold bracelets, and her fingers were loaded 
with rings. She seemed about thirty years of age. She was 
a woman of tall and fine presence, and she stood and moved 
as if she was a queen. She presently came forth from the 
veranda and walked across the yard toward us. 

Let me look at them — your new batch,” she said, speak- 
ing languidly, and with an accent somewhat foreign. How 
many are there? Where do they come from? Who is this 
one, for instance?” She took the girl named Deb by the 
chin, and looked at her as if she were some animal to be sold 
in the market. A stout wench truly. What was she over 
there?” 

The overseer read the name and the crimes of the prisoner. 


mn FAITH AKD FREEDOM. 




259 


Madame (this was the only name by which I knew her) pushed 
her away disdainfully. 

Well/^ she said, she will find companions enough here. 
I hope she will work without the whip. Hark ye, girl,^^ she 
added, with, I think, kindly intent, it goes still to my heart 
when I hear that the women have been trounced; but the work 
must be done. Eemember that! And who are those — and 
those She pointed with . contempt to the poor creatures 
covered with dirt and dust, and in the ragged, miserable 
clothes they have worn all the voyage. Street sweepings; 
rogues and thieves all. Let them know,^^ she said, grandly, 
what awaits those who skulk and those who thieve. And 
whom have we here? — she turned to me. Is this some fine 
city madame fresh from Bridewell ?^^ 

This prisoner, said the overseer, is described as a rebel 
in the late Monmouth Eising.^^ 

^^A rebel? — truly?^^ she asked, with curiosity. ^^Were 
Monmouth^s soldiers women? We heard by the last ship 
something of this. Madame, I know not why you must needs 
become a rebel; but this, look you, is no place for gentlewomen 
to sit down and fold their arms.^^ 

^VMadame,'’^ I replied, I look for nothing less than to 
work, being now a convict (though I was never tried) and con- 
demned — I know not by whom — to transportation in his Maj- 
esty's Plantations. 

Let me look at your hands,^^ she said, sharply. Why, 
of what use are these little fingers? They have never done 
any work. And your face — prithee turn back your hood.^^ 
I obeyed, and her eyes suddenly softened. Indeed I looked 
not for this sign of compassion, and my own tears began to 
flow. ^Tis a shame!’^ she cried. ^Tis a burning shame 
to send so young a woman — and a gentlewoman, and one with 
such a face — to th^lantations ! Have they no bowels? Child, 
who put thee aboard the ship?^^ 

I was brought on board by one Mr. Penne, who deceived 
me, promising that I should be taken to New England,, where 
I have cousins.*’^ 

We will speak of this presently. Meantime — since we 
must by the law find you some work to do — can you sew?^^ 
‘“^Yes, madame, I can perform any kind of needle-work, 
from plain sewing to embroidery.''^ 

What mean they,^"* she cried again, by sending a help- 
less girl alone with such a crew? The very Spaniards of 
whom they talked so much would blush for such barbarity. 
Well, they would send her to a convent, where the good nuns 




260 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


would treal Her kindly. Madame, or miss, thou art bought, 
and the master may not, by law, release you. But there is a 
way, of which we will talk presently. Meanwhile thou caiist sit 
in the sewing-room, where we may find thee work.'^^ 

^ I thanked her. She would have said more; but there came 
forth from the house, with staggering step, the man who had 
bought us. He had now put off his wig and his scarlet coat, 
and wore a white dressing-gown and a linen night-cap. He 
had in his hand a whip, which he cracked as he walked. 

Child, said madame, quickly, ‘^pull down your hood. 
Hide your face. He hath been drinking, and. at such times 
he is dangerous. Let him never set eyes upon thee save when 
he is sober. 

He came rolling and staggering, and yet not so drunk but 
he could speak, though his voice was thicL 

^^Oho!^^ he cried. Here are the new servants. Stand 
up, every man and woman. Stand up, I say!^^ Here he 
cracked his whip, and they obeyed, trembling. But madame 
placed herself in front of nie. ‘‘Let me look at ye.^^ He 
walked along the line, calling the unhappy creatures vile and 
foul names. Oh, shame! thus to mock their misery! “ What!^^ 
he cried. “ You think you have come to a country where 
there is nothing to do but to lie on your backs and eat turtle 
and drink mobbie? V/hat! You shall find out your mistake 
Here he cracked his whip again. “You shall work all day in 
the field, not because you like it, but because you must. For 
your food, it shall be loblollie, and for your drink, water from 
the pond. What, I say! Those who skulk shall learn that 
the Newgate ‘ cat ^ is tender compared with her brother of 
Barbadoes. Tremble, therefore, ye devils all —tremble !^^ 

They trembled visibly. All were now subdued. Those of 
them who swaggered — the dare-devil, reckless blades — when 
first we sailed, were now transformed into cowardly, trembling 
wretches, all half starved, and some reduced with fevers, with 
no more spirit left than enabled them still to curse and swear. 
The feeblest of mortals, the lowest of human wretches, has 
still left so much strength and will that he can sink his im- 
mortal soul lower still — a terrible power, truly! 

Then madame drew me aside gently, and led me to a place 
like a barn, where many women, white and black, sat sewing, 
and a great quantity of little black babies and naked children 
played about under their charge. The white women were sad 
and silent; the blacks, I saw with surprise, were all chattering 
and laughing. The negro is h^py, \t he have enough to eat 


FOB FAITH AND FBFEDOH. 261 

and drink, whether he be slave or free. Madame sat down 
upon a bench and caused me to sit beside her. 

Tell me/’ she said, kindly, what this means. When 
did women begin to rebel? If men are such fools as to go 
forth and fight, let them, but for women — 

Indeed, I told her, I did not fight. 

Then nothing would do but I must tell her all, from the be- 
ginning — my name, my family, and my history. But I told 
her nothing about my marriage. 

So,^^ she said, you have lost father, mother, brothers, 
lover, and friends by this pretty business. And all because 
they will not suffer the king to worship in his own way. 
Well, ^tis hard for you. To be plain, it may be harder than 
you think or I can help. You have been bought for sixty 
pounds, and that not for any profit that your work will bring 
to the estate, because such as you are but a loss and a burden; 
but only in the hope that your friends will pay a great sum for 
ransom. 

Madame, I have indeed no friends left who can do this for 
me. 

‘‘ If so it is indeed unfortunate. For presently the master 
will look for letters on your behalf, and if none come, I know 
not what he may threaten or what he may do. But think — 
try to find some one. Consider, your lot here must be hard at 
best; whereas, if you are released, you can live where you 
please; you may even marry whom you please, because beauti- 
ful young gentlewomen like youi^self are scarce indeed in Bar- 
badoes. ^Tis Christian charity to set you free. Eemember, 
child, that money will do here what I suppose it will do any- 
where — all are slaves to money. You have six months before 
you in which to write to your friends and to receive an an- 
swer. If in that time nothing comes, I tell thee again, child, 
that I know not what will happen. As for the life in the 
fields, it would kill thee in a week.-^^ 

Perhaps, if the Lord so wills, I replied, helplessly, that 
may be best. Friends have I none now, nor any whom I could 
ask for help, save the Lord alone. I will ask for work in the 
fields.''^ 

Perhaps he may forget thee,^^ she said — meaning the mas- 
ter. But no; a man who hath once seen thy face will never 
forget thee. My dear, he told me when he came home that 
he had bought a woman whose beauty will set the island in 
flames. Pray Heaven he come not near thee when he is in 
liquor. Hide that face, child, hide that face. Let him never 
see thee. Oh, there are dangers worse than labor in the fields 


562 


FOR FATTH AND FERKDOAf. 


— Worse than whip of overseer. She sprung to her feet and 
clasped her hands. ‘"You talk of the Lord^s will. What 
hath the Lord to do with this place? .Here is nothing but de- 
bauchery and drinkings cruelty and greed. Why have they 
sent here a woman who prays?^^ 

Then she sat down again and took my hand. 

“ Tender maid/^ she said, “ thy face is exactly such as the 
face of a certain saint — Tis in a picture which hangs in the 
chapel of the convent where the good nuns brought me up 
long ago, before I came to this place — long ago. Yes, I for- 
get the name of the saint: thou hast her face. She stood, in 
the picture, surrounded by soldiers who had red hair, and 
looked like devils — English devils, the nuns said. Her eyes 
were raised to Heaven, and she prayed. But what was done 
unto her I know not, because there was no other picture. Now 
she sits upon a throne in the presence of the Mother of God.'’^ 

The tears stood in her great black eyes — I take it that she 
was thinking of the days when she was young. 

“ Well, we must keep thee out of his way. While he is 
sober, he listens to reason, and thinks continually upon his 
estate and his gains. When he is drunk, no one can hold 
him, and reason is lost on him. 

She presently brought me a manchet of white bread and a 
glass of Madeira wine, and then told me that she would give 
me the best cottage that the estate possessed, and for my bet- 
ter protection, another woman to share it with me. 1 thanked 
her again, and asked that I might have the girl called Deb, 
which she readily granted. 

And so my first day of servitude ended in thus happily find- 
ing a protector. As for the cottage, it was a poor thing; but 
it had a door, and a window with a shutter. The furniture 
was a pallet with two thick rugs and nothing more. My con- 
dition was desperate indeed; but yet, had I considered, I had 
been so far most mercifully protected. I was shipped as a 
convict (it is true) by a treacherous villain, but on the ship I 
found a compassionate captain, who saved me from the com- 
pany among whom I must otherwise have dwelt. I was sold 
to a drunken and greedy planter; but I found a compassionate 
woman who promised to do what she could; and I had for my 
companion the woman who had become a most faithful maid 
to me upon the voyage, and who still continued in her fidelity 
and her love. And greater mercies yet were in store, as you 
shall see. ' 


JOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


263 


CHAPTER xxxm 

BY THE WATERS OF BABYLON. 

Thus delivered from the slavery of the fields, I began to 
work, an unprofitable servant, among those who made and 
mended the garments of the servants and negroes. On an es- 
tate so large as this there is always plenty to be done by the 
seamstresses and needle-women. Thus, to every woman is 
given by the year four smocks, two petticoats and four coifs, 
besides shoes, which are brought from England by the ships. 
Those who wait in the house have, in addition, six smocks and 
three waistcoats. To the men are given six shirts; and to 
every man and woman a rug or gown of thick stuff to cast 
about them when they come home hot, so tha;t they may not 
catch cold — a thing which throws many into a fever. All 
these things have to be made and mended on the estate. 

As for the children, the little blacks, they run about with- 
out clothing, their black skin sufficing. The women who are 
engaged upon the work of sewing are commonly those of the 
white servants who are not strong enough for the weeding and 
hoeing in the fields, or are old and past hard work. Yet the 
stuff of which the smocks and shirts are made is so coarse that 
it tore the skin from my fingers, which, when madame saw, 
she hi’ought me fine work — namely, for herself. She v/as also 
so good as to provide me with a change of clothes, of which I 
stood sadly in need, and excused my wearing the dress of the 
other women. I hope that I am not fond of fine apparel, 
more than becomes a modest woman, but I confess that the 
thought of wearing this livery of servitude, this coarse and 
common dress of smock, petticoat, and coif, all of rough and 
thick stuff, like canvas, with a pair of shoes and no stockings, 
filled my very soul with dismay. None of the many acts of 
kindness shown me 'by madame was more gratefully received 
than her present of clothes — not coarse and rough to the skin, 
nor ugly and common, befitting prisoners and criminals, but 
soft and pleasant to wear, and fit for the heat of the climate. 
^Twas no great hardship, certainly, to rise early and sit all day 
with needle and thread in a great room well aired. The com- 
pany, to be sure, was not what one would have chosen; nor 
was the language of the poor creatures who sat with me — 
prison and Bridewell birds, all of them — such as my poor 
mother would have desired her daughter to hear. The food 


364 


S’OR FAITH AHB FREEDOM, 


was coarse; but 1 was often at the house (when the master was 
away), and there madame would constantly give me something 
from her own table, a dish of chocolate (rightly called the In- 
dian nectar), made so thick and strong that a spoon stands up- 
right in it, or a glass of Madeira, if my cheeks looked paler 
than ordinary. In this country the great heat of the air seems 
to suck out and devour the moisture of the body, so that those 
of European birth, if they are not nourished on generous diet, 
presently fall into a decline or wasting away, as is continually 
seen in the case of white servants, both men and women, who 
die early, and seldom last more than five or six years. 

Briefiy, madame seemed to take great pleasure in my con- 
versation, and would either seek me in the work-room or 
would have me to the house, asking questions as to my former 
life. For herself, I learned that she was born in Cuba, and 
had been brought up by nuns in a convent; but how or why 
she came to this place I knew not, nor did I ask. Other gen- 
tlewomen of the island I never saw, and I think there were 
none who visited her. Nor did she show kindness to the 
women servants (except to myself), treating them all, as is the 
fashion in this country, as if they were so many black negroes, 
not condescending to more than a word or a command; and if 
this were disobeyed, they knew very well What to expect from 
her. But to me she continued throughout to be kind and gra- 
cious, thinking always how she could lighten my lot. 

In this employment, therefore, I continued with such con- 
tent as may be imagined, which was rather a forced resigna- 
tion to the will of the Lord than a cheerful heart. But I 
confess that I looked upon the lot of the other women with hor- 
ror, and was thankful indeed that I was spared the miseries of 
those who go forth to the fields. They begin at six in the 
morning and work until eleven, when they come home to din- 
ner; at one o^clock they go out again and return at sunset, 
which, in that country, is nearly always about half past six. 
But let no one think that work in the fields at Barbadoes may 
be compared with work in the fields at home; for in England 
there are cloudy skies and cold wintery days in plenty^ but in 
Barbadoes, save when the rain falls in prodigious quantities, 
the skies have no clouds, but are clear blue all the year round; 
the sun burns with a heat intolerable, so that the eyes are 
well-nigh blinded, the head aches, the limbs fail, and but for 
fear of the lash the wretched toiler would lie down in the near- 
est shade. And a terrible thirst (all this was told me by the 
girl I)eb) seizes the throat, all day long, which nothing can 
assuage but rest. For the least skulking the whip is laid on; 


FOR FAITH AKD FREEDOM. 


265 


and if there be a word of impatience or murmuring, it is called 
stark mutiny, for which the miserable convict, man or woman, 
is tied up and flogged with a barbarity which would be incredi- 
ble to any were it not for the memory of certain flogging in 
our own country. Besides the lash they have also the pillory 
and the stocks, and the overseers carry in addition to their 
whip a heavy cane, with w^hich they constantly belabor the 
slaves, both white and black. I say slaves, because the 
white servants are nothing less, save that the negroes are far 
better otf and receive infinitely better treatment than the poor 
white creatures. Indeed, the negro being the absolute prop- 
erty of his master, both he and his children, to ill-treat him is 
like the wanton destruction of cattle on a farm; whereas there 
is no reason in making the convicts last out more than the ten 
years of their servitude, or even so long, because many of them 
are such poor creatures when they arrive, and so reduced by 
the miseries of the voyage, and so exhausted by the hard labor 
to which they are put, that they bring no profit to the master, 
but quickly fall ill and die like rotten sheep. Like rotten 
sheep, I say, they die, without a word of Christian exhortation; 
and like brute creatures who have no world to come are they 
buried in the ground! Again, the food served out to these 
poor people is not such as should be given to white people in a 
hot' climate. There is nothing but water to drink, and that 
drawn frpm ponds, because in Barbadoes there are few springs 
or rivers. It is true that the old hands, who have learned how 
to manage, contrive to make plantain wine, and get, by hook 
or by crook, mobbie (which is a strong drink made from pota- 
toes), or kill-devil, which is the new spirit distilled from 
sugar. Then, for solid food, the servants are allowed five 
pounds of salt beef for each person every week, and this is so 
hard and stringy that no boiling will make it soft enough for 
the teeth. Sometimes, instead of the beef, they have as much 
salt fish, for the most part stinking; with this a portion of 
ground Indian corn, which is made into a kind of porridge 
and called loblollie. This is the staple of the food, and there 
are no rustics at home who do not live better and have more 
nourishing food. 

,I do not deny that the convicts are for the most part a most 
horrid crew, who deserve to suffer if any men ever did; but it 
was sad to see how the faces of the people were pinched with 
hunger and wasted with the daily fatigues, and how their hol- 
low eyes were full of despair. Whatever their sins may have 
been, they were at least made in God^s own image; no crimi- 
nal, however wicked, should have been used with such bar- 


266 


J’OK faith: ahh fbeedom. 


barity as was wreaked upon the people of this estate. The 
overseers were chosen (being themselves also convicts) for their 
hardness of heart. Nay, did they show the least kindness to- 
ward the poor creatures whom they drove, they would them- - 
selves be forced to lay down the whip of office and to join the 
gang of those who toiled. And over them was the master, 
jealous to exact the last ounce of strength from the creatures 
whom he had bought. Did the good people of Bristol who 
buy the sugar and molasses and tob^acco of the Indies know or 
understand the tears of despair and the sweat of agony which 
are forced with every pound of sugar, they would abhor the 
trade which makes them rich. 

The companion of my sleeping-hut, the girl Deb, was a 
great, strapping wench, who bade fair to outlast her ten years 
of servitude, even under the treatment to which, with the rest, 
she was daily subjected. And partly because she was strong 
and active, partly because she had a certain kind of beauty 
(the kind which belongs to the rustic, and is accompanied by 
good-humor and laughter)^ she would perhaps have done well, 
as some of the women do, and ended by marrying an overseer, 
but for events which presently happened. Yet, strong as she 
was, there was no evening when she did not return worn out 
with fatigue, her cheeks burning, her limbs weary, yet happy 
because she had one more day escaped the lash, aud had the 
night before her in which to rest. If it is worth noting, the 
women were from the outset the most willing workers, and 
the most eager to satisfy their^ task-masters; the men, on the 
other hand, went sullen and downcast, thinking only how to 
escape the overseer^s whip, and going through the work with 
angry and revengeful eyes. I think that some great mutiny 
might have happened upon this estate — some wild revenge — so 
desperate were these poor creatures and so horrible were the 
scourgings they endured, and the shrieks and curses which 
they uttered. Let me not speak of these things. j 

There are other things which make residence in Barbadoes, ^ 
even to the wealthy, full of annoyances and irritations. The ^ 
place is filled with cockroaches, great spiders, horrid scorpions, 
centipedes and lizards. There are ants which swarm every- j 
where, and there are clouds of flies, and at night there are i 
mosquitoes and merry wings, which by their bites have been \ 
known to drive new-comers into fever, or else into a kind of j 
madness. j 

In the evenings after supper there reigned a melancholy j 
silence in the village, the people for the most part taking rest j 
with weary limbs. Sometimes there would be a quarrel, with | 


FOR FAITH A HD FREEDOM. 267 

horrid oaths and curses, and perhaps some fighting; but these 
occasions were rare. 

From the house there came often the noise of singing and 
- loud talking when other planters would ride over for a drink- 
ing bout. There was also sometimes to be heard the music of 
the theorbo, upon which madame played very sweetly, singing 
►Spanish songs; so that it seemed a pity for music so sweet to 
be thrown away upon, this selfish crew. It made me think of 
Plumphrey, and of the sweet and holy thoughts which he 
would put into rhymes, and then fit the rhymes with music 
which seemed to breathe those very thoughts. Alas! In the 
villager! Bradford Orcas there would be now silence and deso- 
lation! The good old squire dead, my father dead, the young 
men sent to the Plantations, no one left at all but the rector 
and madame his sister-in-law, and I, alas! a slave. Perchance 
at that moment the rector might be slo\^ly drawing his bow 
across the strings of his violoncello, thinking of those who 
formerly played with him; or perhaps he would be sorrowfully 
taking out his cases and gazing for a little consolation upon 
the figures of his goddesses and his nymphs. Only to think of 
the place, and of those who once lived there, tore my poor 
heart to pieces. 

One evening, when there was a great noise and talking at 
the house, while we were sitting upon our beds with no other 
light than that of the moon, madame herself came to the cot- 
tage. 

Child, she said, nothing will do but that the gentle- 
men must see thy beauty. Nay, no harm shall happen while 
I am there; so much they know. But he hath so bragged 
about thy beauty and the great price he will demand for ran- 
som that the rest are mad to see thee. I swear that not the 
least rudeness shall be offered thee. They are drinking, it is 
true; but they are not yet drunk. Come!''^ 

So I arose and followed her. First, she took me to her own 
room, where she took off my hood and threw over me a long 
white lace mantilla, which covered my head and fell over my 
shoulders and below the waist. 

She sighed as she looked at me. 

Poor innocent!^^ she said. ^^Tf money could buy that 
face, there is not a man' in the room but would give all he 
hath and count it gain. Canst thou play or sing?'^ 

I told her that I had some knowledge of the theorbo. 
Therefore she brought me hers, and bade m-e sing to the gen- 
tlemen and then retire quickly. So I followed her into the 
living- or keeping-room, where a dozen gentlemen were sitting 


FOR FAITH AHT^ FREEDOM. 


S68 

round the table. A bowl of puncli was on the table, and 
every man had his glass before him, and a* pipe of tobacco in 
his hand. Some of their faces were flushed -with wine. 

Gentlemen/^ said madame, our prisoner hath consented 
to sing one song to you, after which she will ask permission 
to bid 3 "ou good-night. 

So they all clapped their hands and rapped the table, and I, 
being indeed terrified, but knowing very well that to show 
fear would be the worst thing I could do, touched the strings 
and began my song. 1 sung the song which Humphrey made, 
and which he sung to the officers at Taunton when the duke 
was there. 

When I finished, I gave back the theorbo to madame, 
courtesied to the gentlemen, and quickly stepped back to ma- 
dame ^s room, while they all bellowed and applauded and roared 
for me to come back again. But I put on my hood and 
slipped out to the cottage, where I lay down beside Deb, and 
quickly fell asleep. (It is a great happiness, in these hot 
latitudes, that, when a new-comer hath once got over the 
trouble of the merrywings, he falleth asleep the moment he 
lies down, and so sleeps through the whole night.) 

But in the morning madame came to see me while I was 
sewing. 

Well, child, she said, laughing, ‘^thou hast gotten a 
lover, who swears that he will soon have thee out of this hell.^’ 

A lover!^^ I cried. IsTay! — that may God forbid!^’ 

^Tis true. Young Mr. Anstiss it is. While thou wast 
singing he gazed on thy pretty face and listened as one en- 
chanted. I wonder — but no! — thou hast no eyes for such 
things. And when thou wast gone he offered the master four 
times the sum he paid for thee — ^yea, four times — or six times 
*— sajdng that he meant honorably, and that if any man dared 
to whisper anything to the contrary he would cut his throat.*’^ 

^‘Alas! madame. I must never marry — either this Mr. 
Anstiss or any other. 

Tut — tut! This is foolish maid^s nonsense. Granted you 
have lost your old lover, there are plenty more. Suppose he 
hath lost his old sweetheart, there are plenty more — as I doubt 
not he hath already proved. Mr! Anstiss is- a very pretty 
young gentleman; but the master would not listen, saying that 
he waited for the lady^s friends.^^ 

And so passed six weeks, or thereabouts, for the only count 
of time I kept was from Sunday to Sunday. On that day we 
rested; the negroes, who are no better than heathens, danced. 
The white servants lay about in the shade, and drank what 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 269 

they could; in one cottage only on that godless estate were 
prayers oiffered. 

And then happened that great event which^ in the end, 
proved to be a change in my whole life, and brought happiness 
out of misery, and joy out of sujffering, though at first it seemed 
only a dreadful addition to my trouble. Thus is the course of 
things ordered for us, and thus the greatest blessings follow 
upon the most threatening juncture. What this was I will 
tell in a few words. 

It was about the third week in September when I embarked, 
and about the third week in November when the ship made 
her port. Therefore I take it that it was one day about the 
beginning of the year 1686, when madame came to the work- 
room and told me that a ship had arrived carrying a cargo of 
two hundred rebels and more, sent out to work upon the Plan- 
tations, like myself, for the term of ten years. She also told 
me that the master was gone to the Bridge in order to buy 
some of them. Not, she said, that he wanted more hands; 
but he expected that there would be among them persons of 
quality, who would be glad to buy their freedom. He still, 
she told me, looked to make a great profit out of myself, and 
was thinking to sell me, unless my friends in England speedily 
sent proposals for my ransom, to the young planter who was 
in love with me. This did not displease me. I have not 
thought it necessary to tell how Mr. Anstiss came often to the 
estate, and continually devised schemes for looking at me, go- 
.ing to the ingenio, whence he could see those who sat in the 
work-room, and even sending me letters, vowing the greatest 
extravagance of passion — I say I was not displeased, because 
there was in this young gentleman ^s face a certain goodness of 
disposition clearly marked; so that even if I became his prop- 
erty I thought I might persuade him to relinquish thoughts of 
love, even if I had to trust myself entirely to his honor and 
tell him all. But, as you shall hear, this project of the mas- 
ter's was brought to naught. 

As for the rebels, I was curious to see them. Some I might 
recognize; to some I might perhaps be of a little use at the 
outset in guarding them against dangers. I did not fear, or 
think it likely, that there would be any among them whom I 
might know, or who might know me. Yet the thing which I 
least suspected, and the least feared — a thing which one would 
have thought so unlikely as to make the event a miracle — nay, 
call it rather the merciful ordering of all — that thing, I say, 
actually happened. 


270 


miEi FAITH AiSTH FREEDOM. 


The newly bought servants arrived at about five in the even- 
ing. 

I looked out of the work-room to see them. Why, I seemed 
to know their faces — all their faces! They were our brave 
West Country lads, whom I had last seen marching gallantly 
out of Taunton Town to victory and glory (as they believed). 
Now — pale with the miseries of the voyage, thin with bad food 
and disease, hollow-cheeked and hollow-eyed, in rags and dirt, 
barefooted, covered with dust, grimy for want of washing, 
their beards grown, all over their faces — with hanging heads, 
stood these poor fellows. There were thirty of them; some 
had thrown themselves on the ground, as if in the last ex- 
tremity of fatigue; some stood with the patience that one sees 
in brute beasts who are waiting to be killed; and in a group 
together stood three — oh, merciful Heaven! was this misery 
also added to my cup? — they were Eobin, Barnaby, and Hum- 
phrey! Eobin''s face, heavy and pale, betrayed the sorrow of 
his soul. He stood as one whp neither careth for nor regardeth 
anything. My heart fell like lead to witness the despair which 
was visiWe in his attitude, in his eyes, in his brow. But Barna- 
by showed still a cheerful countenance, and looked about him 
as if he was arriving a welcome guest instead of a slave. 

You know any of them, child ?^^ madame asked. 

Oh, madame!^^ I cried; they are my friends — they are 
my friends. Oh, help them! — help them!’^ 

How can I help them?^^ she replied, coldly. They are 
rebels, and they are justly punished. Let them write home 
for money if they have friends, and so they can be ransomed. 
To make them write the more movingly, the master hath re- 
solved to send them all to work in the fields. ' The harder 
they work,^ he says, ^ the more they will desire to be free 
again. ^ 

In the fields! Oh, Eobin — my poor Eobin! 


OHAPTEE XXXVIII. 

HUMPHREY'S KARRATIYE. 

With these words, Oh, Eobin! Eobin !^^ the history, as 
set down in my mistresses handwriting, suddenly comes to an 
end. The words are fitting, because her whole heart was full 
of Eobin, and though at this time it seemed to tlie poor creat- 
ure a sin still to nourish affection for her old sweetheart, I am 
sure — nay, I have it on her own confession — that there was 
never an hour in the waking day when Eobin was not in her 


J'OR FAITH AKD FREEDOM. 


m 


mind, though between herself and her former lover stood the 
dreadful figure of her husband. I suppose that, although she 
began this work with the design to complete it, she had not 
the courage, even when years had passed away and much 
earthly happiness had been her reward, to write down the 
passages which follow. Wherefore (and for another reason, 
namely, a confession which must be made by myself before I 
die) I have taken upon myself to finish that part of Grace 
Eykin^s history which relates to the Monmouth Eising and its 
unhappy consequences. You have read how (thanks to my 
inexperience and ignorance of conspiracies, and belief in menu's 
promises) we wer-e reduced to the lowest point of disgrace and 
poverty. Grace did not tell, because till afterward she did not 
know, that on Sir Christopher^s death his estate was declared 
confiscated, and presently bestowed upon Benjamin by favor 
of Lord Jeffreys; so that he whose ambition it was to become 
Lord Chancellor was already (which he had not expected) the 
Lord of the Manor of Bradford Orcas. But of this hereafter. 

I have called her my mistress. Truly, all my life she hath 
been to me more than was ever Laura to Petrarch, or even 
Beatrice to the great Florentine. The ancients represented 
every virtue by a Goddess, a Grace, or a Nymph. Nay, the 
Arts were also feminine (yet subject to the informing influence 
of the other sex, as the Muses had Apollo for-their director and 
chief). To my mind every generous sentiment, every worthy 
thought, all things that are gracious, all things that lift my 
soul above the common herd, belong not to me, but to my 
mistress. In my youth it was she who encouraged me to the 
practice of those arts by which the soul is borne heavenward 
— I mean the arts of poetry and of music; it was she who list- 
ened patiently when I would still be prating of myself, and en- 
couraged the ambitions which had already seized my soul. So 
that if I turned a set of verses smoothly, it was to Grace that 
I gave them, and for her that I wrote them. When we played 
heavenly music together, the thoughts inspired by the strain 
were like the Italian painter^s vision of the angels which attend 
the Virgin— I mean that, sweet and holy as they are, they fall 
far short of the holiness and sweetness of her whom they honor. 
So, whatever my thoughts or my ambitions, amidst them all I 
saw continually the face of Grace, always filled with candor 
and with sweetness. That quality which enables a woman to 
think always about others, and never about herself, was given 
to Grace in large and plenteous measure. If she talked with 
me, her soul was all mine. If she was waiting on madame, or 
upon Sir Christopher, or ^ upon the rector, or on her own 


272 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


mother, she knew their inmost thoughts and divined all their 
wants. Nay, long afterward, in the daily exercise of work 
and study, at the University of Oxford, in the foreign schools 
of Montpellier, Padua, and Leyden, it was Grace who, though 
far away, eiiCQuraged me. I could no longer hear her voice; 
but her steadfast eyes remained in my mind like twin stars 
that dwell in heaven. This is a wondrous power given to a 
few women, that they should become, as it were, angels sent 
from heaven, lent to the earth awhile, in order to fill men’s 
minds with worthy thoughts, and to lead them in the heaveniy 
way. The Eomish Church holds that the ag^ of miracles hath 
never passed; which I do also believe, but not in the sense 
taught by that Church. Saints there are among us still, who 
daily work miracles, turning earthly clay into the jasper and 
precious marble of heaven! 

Again, the great poet Milton hath represented his virtuous 
lady unharmed among the rabble rout of Comus, protected by 
her virtue alone. Pity that he hath not also sliown a young 
man led by that sweet lady, encouraged, warned, and guarded 
along that narrow way, beset with quag and pitfall, along which 
he must walk who would willingly climb to higher place I And 
all this apart from earthly love, as in the case of those two 
Italian poets. 

More, I confess, I would have had, and presumptuously 
longed for it — nay, even prayed for it with such yearnings and 
longings as seemed to tear my very heart asunder. But this 
was denied to me. 

In September, 1685, ten weeks after the fight of Sedgemoor, 
we, being by that time well tired of Exeter Prison, were tried 
by Lord Jeffreys. It was no true trial, for we were all advised 
to plead guilty, upon which the judge bellowed and roared at 
us, abusing us in such language as I never thought to hear 
from the bench, and finally sentenced us all to death. (A 
great deal has been said of this roaring of the judge, but I am 
willing to excuse it in great measure, on the ground of the 
disease from which he was then suffering. I myself, who had 
heard that he was thus afflicted, saw the drops of agony upon 
his forehead, and knew that if he was not bawling at us he 
must have been roaring on his own account. ) So we were 
marched back to prison, and began to prepare for, the last 
ceremony, which is, I think, needlessly horrible and barba- 
rous. To cut a man open while he is still living is a thing not 
j)racticed even by the savage Turk. At this gloomy time my 
cousin Robin set a noble example ^f fortitude, which greatly 


FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. 


373 


encouraged the rest of us. Nor would he ever suffer me to 
reproach myself (as I was continually tempfced to do) with hav- 
ing been the cause of the ruin which had fallen upon the whole 
of our unfortunate house. Nay, he went further, and in- 
sisted, and would have it, that had I remained in Holland, he 
himself would have joined the duke, and that I was in no way 
to blame as an inciter to this unfortunate act. We knew by 
this time that Sir Christopher had been. arrested and conveyed 
to II minster Jail, and that with him were Dr. Eykin, griev- 
ously wounded, and Barnaby; and that Grace, with her moth- 
er, was also at Ilminster. Mr. Boscorel, for his part, was gone 
to London in order to exert whatever interest he might possess 
on behalf of all. With him went madame, Eobin^s mother; 
but she returned before the trial, much dejected, so that we 
were not encouraged to hope for anything from that quarter. 
Madame began to build some hopes at this time from Benja- 
min, because he, who had accompanied the judges from Lon- 
don, was the boon companion every night of Lord Jeffreys 
himself. But it is one thing to be permitted to drink and sing 
with a great man at night, and another thing to procure of 
him the pardon of rebels (and those not the common sort, but 
leaders and captains). That Benjamin would attempt to save 
us, I did not doubt; because in common decency and humanity 
he must needs try to save his grandfather and his cousins. 
But that he would effect anything, that, indeed, I doubted. 
Whether he did make an attempt^ I know not. He came not 
to the prison, nor did he make any sign that he knew we were 
among the prisoners. What he contrived, the plot which he 
laid, and the villany with which he carried it out, you have 
already read. Well, I shall have much more to say about 
Benjamin. For the moment, let him pass. 

I say, then, that we were lying in Exeter Jail, expecting to 
be called out for execution at any hour. We were sitting in 
the court-yard on the stone bench with gloomy hearts. 

Eobin — Humphrey — lads both!^^ cried a voice we knew. 
It was the rector, Mr. Boscorel himself, who called us. 

Courage, lads!^^ he cried (yet looked himself as mournful as 
man can look). bring you good news — I have this day 
ridden from Ilminster (there is other news not so good) — good 
news, 1 say; for you shall live and not die! I have so far suc- 
ceeded that the lives are spared of Eobin Challis, Captain in 
the Eebel Cavalry; Barnaby Eykin, Captain of the Green 
Eegiment; and Humphrey Challis, Chirurgeon to the Duke. 
Yejb must you go to tlie Plantations — poor lads! — there to stay 
for ten long years. Well, vve will hope to get your pardon and 


374 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


freedom long before that time is over. Yet you must, per- 
force, sail across the seas.’^ 

Lad/^ cried Kobin, catching my hand, cease to fcear thy 
heart with reproaches! See! none of us will die, after all.^^ 

^^On the scaffold, none,^^ said Mr. Boscorel. On the 
scaffold, none,^^ he repeated. 

^^And what saith my grandfather, sir?^^ Robin asked. 

He is also enlarged, I hope, at last. And how is the learned 
Doctor Eykin? and Grace — my Grace — where is she?^^ 

"‘Young men,^^ said the rector, “prepare for tidings of 
the worst — yes, of the very worst. Cruel news I bring to you, 
boys; and for myself — he hung his head — “cruel news, 
shameful news!"'^ 

Alas! you know already what he had to tell us. Worse than 
the death of that good old man. Sir Christopher; worse than 
the death of the unfortunate Dr. Eykin and his much-tried 
wife; there was the news of G racers marriage and of her flight, 
and at hearing this we looked at each other in dismay, and 
Robin sprung to his feet and cried aloud for vengeance upon 
the villain who had done this thing. 

“It is my own son,^^ said Mr. Boscorel; “yet spare him 
not! He deserves all that you can call him, and more. 
Shameful news I had to tell you. Where the poor child hath 
found a retreat, or how she fares, I know not. Robin, ask 
me not to curse my own son — what is done will bring its pun- 
ishment in due time. Doubt it not. But of punishment we 
need not speak. If there were any way — any way possible — 
out of it! But there is none. It is a fatal blow. Death itself 
alone can release her. Consider, Humphrey, consider; you 
are not so distracted as your cousin. Consider, I say, that un- 
happy girl is Benjamin^s lawful wife. If he can find her, he 
may compel her to live with him. She is his lawful wife, I 
say. It is a case in which there is no remedy; it is a wicked- 
ness for which there is no help until one of the twain shall 
die.^" 

There was indeed no help or remedy possible. I will not tell 
of the madness which fell upon Robin at this news, nor of the 
distracted things he said, nor how he wept for Grace at one 
moment and the next cursed the author of this wickedness. 
There was no remedy. Yet Mr. Boscorel solemnly promised 
to seek out the poor innocent girl, forced to break her vows 
for the one reason which could excuse her, namely, to save the 
lives of all she loved. 

“ They were saved already,^^ Mr. Boscorel added. “He 
knew that they were saved. He had seen me; he had the news 


von FAITH AHD FEEEDOM. 


275 


that I brought from London; he knew it; and he lied unto 
her! There is no single particular in which his wickedness can 
be excused or defended. Yet, I say, curses are of no avail. 
The Hand of God is heavy upon all sinners, and will presently 
fall upon my unhappy son — I pray that before that Hand shall 
fall his heart may be touched with repentance.'''' 

But Eobin fell into a melancholy from which it was impossi- 
ble to arouse him. He who, while death upon the scaffold 
seemed certain, was cheerful and brave, now, when his life 
was spared, sat heavy and gloomy, speaking to no one; or if 
he spoke, then in words of rage and impatience. 

Mr. Boscorel remained at Exeter, visiting us daily until the 
time came when we were removed. He brought with him one 
day a smooth-tongued gentleman in sober attire, who was, he 
told us, a West Indian merchant of Bristol, named George 
Penne. (You have read, and know already, how great a vil- 
laiil was this man.) ^ 

This gentleman,"^ said Mr. Boscorel, is able and willing, 
for certain considerations, to assist you in your exile. You 
have been given (among many others) by the king to one Mr. 
Jerome Nipho, who hath sold all his convicts to this gentle- 
man. In his turn he is under bonds to ship you for the Plan- 
tations, where you will be sold again to the planters.*'^ 

Sirs Mr. Penne looked from one to the other of us with 
compassionate eyes— I have heard your melancholy case, and 
it will be to my great happiness if I may be able in any way to 
soften the rigors of your exile. Be it known to you that I 
have correspondents in Jamaica, Barbadoes, and Virginia, and 
that for certain sums of money these — my friends — will readily 
undertake to make your servitude one merely in name. In 
other words, as I have already informed his reverence, I have 
bought you in the hope of being useful to you (I wish I could 
thus buy all unhappy prisoners), and I can, on paying my 
friends what they demand, secure to you freedom from labor, 
subject only to the condition of remaining abroad until your 
term is expired, or your friends at home have procured your 
pardon. 

As for the price, Humphrey,"^ said Mr. Boscorel, that 
shall be my care. It is nearly certain that Sir Christopher’s 
estates will be confiscated, seeing that he died in prison under 
the charge of high treason, though he was never tried. There- 
fore we must not look to his lands for any help. What thi^ 
gentleman proposes is, however, so great a thing that we must 
not hesitate to accept his offer gratefully.” 

I must have,” said Mr. Penne, seventy pounds for each 


276 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


prisoner. I hear that there is a third young gentleman of 
your party now in the same trouble at Ilminster; I shall there- 
fore ask for two hundred guineas — ti^o hundred guineas in all. 
It is not a large sum in order to secure freedom. Those who 
can not obtain this relief have to work in the fields or in the 
mills under the hot sun of the Spanish Main; they are subject 
to the whip of the overseer; they have wretched food; they are 
worse treated than the negroes, because the latter are slaves 
for life and the former for ten years only. By paying two 
hundred guineas only you will all be enabled to live at your 
ease. Meanwhile your friends at home will be constantly en- 
deavoring to procure your pardon. I myself, though but a 
simple merchant of Bristol City, can boast some iiifiuence, 
which I will most readily exert to the utmost in your behalf — 

^^Say no more, sir, said Mr. Boscorel, interrupting him; 

the bargain is concluded. These young gentlemen shall not 
be subjected to any servitude; I vdll pay you two hundred 
guineas. 

‘ ‘ I would, sir — Mr. Penne laid his hand, which was large, 
white, and soft„ the hand of a lidr and a traitor, upon his 
treacherous heart — I would to Heaven, sir/^ he said, that 
I could undertake this service for less. If my correspondents 
were men of tender hearts, the business should cost you noth- 
ing at all. But they are men of business; they say that they 
live not abroad for pleasure, but for profit; they can not forego 
any advantage that may offer. As for me, this job brings me 
no profit. Upon my honor, gentlemen, profit from such a 
source I should despise; every guinea that you give me will be 
placed to the credit of my correspondents, who will, I am as- 
sured, turn a pretty penny by the ransom of the prisoners. 
But that we can not help. And as for me — I say it boldly in 
the presence of this learned and pious clergyman — I am richly 
rewarded with the satisfaction of doing a generous thing. Tliat 
is enough, I hope, for any honest man. 

The fellow looked so benevolent, and smiled with so much 
compassion, that it was impossible to doubt his word. Be- 
sides, Mr. Boscorel had learned many things during the jour- 
ney to London; among others that it would be possible to buy 
immunity from labor for the convicts. Therefore he hesitated 
not, but gave him what he demanded, taking in return a 
paper, which was to be shown to Mr. Penne^s correspondents, 
in which he acknowledged the receipt of the money, and de- 
manded in return a release from actual servitude. This paper 
I put carefully in my pocket with my note-book and my case 
of instruments. 




FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 277 

It was, SO far as my memory serves me, about six weeks 
after our pardon was received when we heard that we were to 
be marched to Bristol, there to be shipped for some port or 
other across the ocean. At Taunton we were joined by a 
hundred poor fellows as fortunate as ourselves; and at Bridge- 
water by twenty more, whose lives had been bought by Colonel 
Kirke. Fortunate we esteemed ourselves; for everywhere the 
roads were lined with legs, heads, trunks, and arms, boiled 
and blackened in pitch, stuck up for the terror of the coun- 
try. Well, you shall judge how fortunate we were. 

When we reached Bristol we found Mr. Penne upon the 
quay, with some other merchants. -He changed color when he 
saw us; but quickly ran to meet us, and whispered that we 
were on no account to betray his goodness in the matter of 
ransom, otherwise it might be the undoing of us all, and per- 
haps cause his own imprisonment. He also told me that the 
ship was bound for Barbadoes, and we should have to mess 
with the other prisoners on the voyage, but that it would all 
be made up to us when we arrived. He further added that he 
had requested his correspondents to entertain us until money 
should arrive from England, and to become our bankers for 
all that we should want. And with that he clasped my 
hand tenderly, and with a God be wi^ yeV^ he left us, and 
we saw him no more. 


CHAPTEE XXXIX. 

BOUHD FOR BARBADOES. 

It was a numerous company gathered together on the deck 
of the ship. By their dress they were country lads; by their 
pale cheeks they were prison birds, like ourselves; by their dis- 
mal faces they were also, like ourselves, rebels condemned to 
the Plantations. Alas! how few of these poor fellows have re- 
turned to their homes, and how many lie in the graves of 
Jamaica, Virginia, and Barbadoes? As for preparations for a 
voyage, not one of us could make any, either of clothes or of 
provisions. There was not among the whole company so much 
as a change of clothes; nay, there was not even a razor, and 
our faces were bristling horribly with the beards which before 
long made us look like so many Heyducs. 

Among them I presently discerned, to my great joy, none 
other than Barnaby. His coat of scarlet was now so ragged 
and stained Tihat neither color nor original shape could be dis- 
cerned, his ruffles and cravat of lace were gone, and the scar- 


278 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


let sash which had formerly carried his hanger was gone also. 
In a word, he was in rags, and covered with the dust of the 
road. Yet his jolly countenance showed a satisfaction which 
contrasted greatly with the dejection of his companions. He 
sniffed the scent of tar and ropes with a joy which was visible 
to all, and he contemplated the ship and her rigging with the 
air of one who is at home. 

Then he saw us and shouted to us while he made his way 
among the rest. 

“What cheer, ho! Humphrey, brave lad of boluses?^ ^ 
Never did any man grasp the hand of friend with greater 
vigor. “ This is better, I say, than the accursed prison, where 
one gets never a breath of fresh air. Here one begins to smell 
salt water and tarred rope, which is a downright wholesome 
smell. Already I feel hearty again. I would willingly drink 
a tankard of black 'beer. What, Eobin, what? We are not 
going to be hanged after all. Lift up thy head^ therefore; is 
this a time for looking glum? We shall live to hang Judge 
Jeffreys yet! — what? Thy looks are poorly, lad. Is it the 
prison, or is it thy disappointment? That villain, Benjamin! 
Hark ye, Eobin — some men^s faces look black when they 
threaten, but Barnaby^s grew broader, as if the contemplation 
of revenge made him the happier — “ Hark ye, this is my busi- 
ness. No one shall interfere with me in this. Benjamin is 
my affair. No one but I myself must kilTBenjamin; not you, 
Humphrey, because he is your cousin; nor you, Eobin, because 
you must not kill Grace ^s husband even to get back your own 
sweetheart. Barnaby spoke wisdom here; in ^ite of Eobin^s 
vows he could not get Grace for himself by killing her hus- 
band, unworthy though he was. “ Benjamin,^^ he went on, 
“ may call her wife, but if he seek to make her his wife, if I 
know Sis aright, he will meet his match. As for her safety, I 
know that she must be safe. For why? Wherever there are 
folks of her religious kidney, there will she find friends. Cheer 
up, Eobin! Soon or late I will kill this fine husband of hers. 
But Eobin shook his head. 

Barnaby then asked if I knew whither we were bound. I 
told him Barbadoes, accordnig to the information given me by 
Mr. Penne. 

“ Why,'’^ said Barnaby, rubbing his hands, “ this is brave 
news indeed. There is no place I would sooner choose. ^Tis 
a small island, to begin with; give me a small island, so that 
the sea runneth all round it and is every where ^within easy 
reach. Where there is the sea there are boats; where there 
are boats there are the means of escape. Cheer up, my lads! , 


FOK FAITH A HD FKEEDOM. 


279 


I know the Spanish Main right well. Give me a tight boat^ I 
care not how small, and a keg of water, and I will sail her 
anywhere. Ha! we are bound to Barbadoes, are we? This is 
brave Dews!^^ 

I asked him next what kind of place it is. 

It is a hot place, he replied. A man is always thirsty, 
and there is plenty to drink except water, which is said to be 
scarce. But the merchants and the planters want none. They 
have wine of the best, of Spain and of Prance and of Madeira. 
Cider and strong ale they import from England. And drinks 
they make in the country — perino and mobbie — I remember— 
guppo and plantain wine and kill-devil. 'Tis a rare country 
for drink, and many there be who die of too much. Hold up 
thy head, Kobin; we will drink damnation to Benjamin yet. 
But ^tis I who shall kill him. Courage, I say. What? Our 
turn will come again 

I told him then what had been done by Mr. George Penne 
— namely, the ransom bought by the rector for us all. 

Why,^^ he said, with some discontent, we shall not be 
long upon the island after all, and perhaps the money might 
have been better bestowed. But Twas kindly done of the 
rector. As for the, banishment, I value it not one farthing. 
One place is as good as another; and, for my own part, I love 
the West Indies. We shall have our choice among them all, 
because, where there are boats and the open sea, a man can 
go Avhithersoever pleaseth him best. The voyage out — he 
glanced round him — will, I fear, be choking work — the 
rations will be short, there will be neither drink nor tobacco, 
and at nights we shall lie closed A more melancholy company 
I never saw. Patience, my lads; our turn will come.^^ 

Well, Twas a special mercy that we had with us one man, 
at least, who preserved l^is cheerfulness, for the rest of the 
company were as melancholy as King James himself could 
have desired. Indeed, to look back upon the voyage is to re- 
call the most miserable time that can be imagined. First of 
all, as I have said, we were wholly unprepared for a voyag0. 
having nothing at all with us. Then we had bad weather at 
the outset, which hot only made our people ill, but caused the 
biscuit to be all spoiled, so that before the end of the voyage a 
few pease with the sweepings of the biscuit-room, and some- 
times a little tough beef, was all our diet, and for drink noth- 
ing, not so much as a pannikin of beer, but water, and that 
turbid, and not too much of it. 

As for me, I kept my health chiefly by the method common 
among physicians — namely, by watching the symptoms of 


280 


FOR FAITH A HD FREEDOM. 


others. But mostly was I concerned with the condition of I 
Kobin. For the poor lad, taking so much to heart the d.read- 
ful villainy which had been practiced upon Grace, never once 
held up his head, and would talk and think of nothing else 
but of that poor girl. 

Where is she?^^ he asked a hundred times. Where hath 
she found a shelter and a hiding-place? How shall she escape 
the villain who will now do what he pleases since we are out 
of his way? And no help for her — not any until she die, or 
until he dies. And we can not even send her a letter to con- 
sole her poor heart! Humphrey, it drives me mad to think that 
every day carries us further from her. If I could but be with 
her to protect her against her husband! Humphrey, Barnaby 
said well:. I could not get her back to me over the dead body 
of her husband. But to protect her — to stand between her 
and the man she hath sworn to obey!^^ 

There is no more dangerous condition of the mind than 
that which we call despair. It is, I take it, a disease, and 
that of the most dangerous kind. I have observed many 
men in that condition. With some, the devil enters into 
them, finding all the doors open and unguarded; nay, and 
receives a warm welcome. With others, it is as if the body 
itself was left without its armor — a cheerful and hopeful 
mind being certainly an armor against disease, capable of ward- 
ing off many of those invisible arrows which are always flying 
about the air and striking us down with fevers, agues,*calen- 
tures and other pains and grievous diseases. 

I marvel that more of the men on board were not sick; for, 
to begin with, the water was thick and swarmed with wriggling 
creatures difficult to avoid in drinking; and then, though dur- 
ing the day we were supposed to be on deck, where the air was 
fresh even if the sun was hot, at nigl^t we were terribly crowded 
below, and lay too close for health or for comfort. However, 
we finally made Carlisle Bay and the port of St. MichaeFs, or 
the Bridge. And I must say this for Barnaby, that he main- 
tained throughout the whole voyage his cheerfulness, and that 
he never ceased to make his plans for escape, drawing on a 
paper, which he procured, a rough chart of the Spanish Main, 
with as many islands as he could remember. Of these there : 
are hundreds, desolate and safe for fugitives, some with neither 
water nor green trees, and some with springs and woods, wild ' 
fruit, land turtles on the shore, fish in the sea, and everything ; 
that man can desire. We made the land one day in the fore- 
noon. 

Barbadoes,^^ said Barnaby, pointing to a little cloud far ^ 


FOR FAITH A HD FREEDOM. 281 

away on the horizon. Well, of this job I am well-nigh sick. 
To-morrow, if the wind holds, we shall have sailed round the 
island, and shall beat up for Carlisle Bay. Well, it is lucky 
for us that we have this letter of Mr. Fennels. We will go — 
I know the place well — to the sign of the Rock and Turtle, kept 
by old Mother Rosemary, if she lives still, if she be dead, by one 
of her daughters — she had fifty daughters at least, all buxom 
mulatto girls. There will we put off these filthy rags, have a 
wash in a tub of fine water, get shaven, and then with smooth 
chins and clean shirts we will sit down to a dinner such as the 
old woman knows how to make, a potato-pudding and Scots col- 
lops with Rhenish wine, and afterward a cool cup of beverage, 
which is nothing in the world but squeezed limes, with sugar 
and water, fit for such a womanly stomach, as yours, doctor. 
With this, and a pipe of tobacco, and perhaps a song and, 
when your worship hath gone to bed, a dance from one of the 
girls — I say, my lad, with this I shall be ready to forget Sedge- 
moor and to forgive J udge Jeffreys. When we are tired of Bar- 
badoes we will take boat and sail away. I know one island at 
least where they care nothing for King James. Thither will 
we go, my lad.^^ 

Well, what we found at our port, and how we fared, was not 
quite as Barnaby expected and hoped, as you shall hear. But 
I must admire the cunning of the man Penne, who not only 
took from Grace, poor child! all her brother's money, amount- 
ing to two hundred and fifty pounds or thereabouts, which you 
have read, on the pretext of bestowing it for the advantage of 
all, but also received two hundred guineas from Mr. Boscorel 
on the same pretense. This made in all four hundred and 
fifty pounds. And not one penny — not a single penny — of 
this great sum did the man spend upon the purpose for which 
it was given him. 

You have hear(F how the merchants and planters came 
aboard the ships which put in with servants and slaves, and ' 
how these are put up for sale, one at a time. As was the sale 
described by Grace, just such was ours; though, I take it, our 
lads were not so miserable a company as were those on board 
her ship. Pale of cheek they looked, and dejected, and some 
were sick with various disorders, caused by the confinement of 
the prison or the sufferings of the voyage. They put us up 
one after the other, and we were sold. 1 forget what I myself 
fetched, and indeed it matters not, save that many jests were 
passed at our expense, and that when one was put up — as 
Robin, for instance — who had been a captain in the rebel 
army, the salesman was eloquent in praise of his rich and ih 


282 


FOR FAITH AKD FREEDOM, 




lustrious family, who would never endure that this unfortu- 
nate man should continue in servitude. But Barnahy put 
his tongue in his cheek and laughed. 

When the sale was concluded we were bundled into boats, 
and taken ashore to the barracoon, of which you have heard 
from Grace. Here the same officer as read to her party the 
laws concerning servants and their duties, and the punish- 
ments which await transgressors, read them also to ourselves. 

Faith, Barnaby whispered, there will be great scoring 
of backs before many days are done, unless their bark is worse 
than their bite. 

This done, I thought^ it was time to present my letter. 
Therefore I stepped forward, and informed the officer who, 
by reason of his gown and wig and the beadles who were with 
him, I judged to be some lawyer, that, with my cousin and 
another, I held a letter which should hold us free from servi- 
tude. 

Ay, ay,^^ he said. Where is that letter 

So I gave it to him. •^Twas addressed to one Jonathan Pol- 
whele, and enj-oined him to receive the three prisoners, named 
Humphrey Challis, Eobin Challis and Barnaby Eykin, pay for 
them such sums as would reasonably be required to redeem 
them from servitude, and to advance them such moneys as 
they would want at the outset for maintenance, the whole to 
be accounted for in Mr. Jonathan Polwhele^s next dispatches 
to his obedient, much obliged servant, G. P. 

Sir,’^ said the officer, when he had read the letter through, 
‘Mt is addressed to Mr. Jonathan Polwhele. There is no mer- 
chant or planter of that name on the whole island. 

He gave me back the letter. If this,^^ he said, is all 
you have to show, there is no reason why you and your friends 
should not march with the rest/^ 

Truly we had nothing else to show. Not only was there no 
one named Polwhele on the island, but there never had been 
any one of that name. 

Therefore it was plain that we had been tricked, and that 
the man George Penne was a villain. Alas, poor Barnaby! 
Where now were his cool cups and his pipe of tobacco? Then 
the officer beckoned to a gentleman — a sober and grave person 
— standing near, and spoke to him. 

Gentlemen, said the merchant, permit me to read this 
letter. So — it is the handwriting of Mr. George Penne, which I 
know well. There is here some strange mistake. The letter 
is addressed to Mr. Jonathan Polwhele, but there is no one of 
that name in the place. I am myself Mr. Pennons corre 


j?OR FAITH AKD FREEDOM. 


283 

spondent in this island. My name, gentlemen, is Sefton; not 
Polwhele.^^ 

Sir,^"" I said, do you know Mr.. Penne?^^ 

I have never seen him. He consigns to my care, once or 
twice a year, a cargo of transported servants, being rogues and 
thieves, sent here instead of to the gallows. He ships them to 
my care, I say, as he hath shipped the company arrived t is 
morning; and I sell them for him, taking for my share a per- 
centage, as agreed upon, "and remitting to him the balance in 
sugar and tob^acco.^^ 

“ Is there no letter from him.^^^ 

There is a letter in which he advises me of so many rebels 
consigned to me in order to be sold. Some among them, he 
says, were captains and officers in Monmouth^s army, and 
some are of good family, among whom he especially names 
Eobin and Humphrey Challis. But there is not a word about 
ransom. 

‘‘Sir,” I said, knowing nothing as yet of Grace and her 
money, “ two hundred guineas have been paid to Mr. Penne 
by the Eev. Philip Boscorel, Eector of Bradford Orcas, for 
our ransom. 

“ Nothing is said of this,^’ he replied, gravely. “ Plainly, 
gentlemen, without dispatches from Mr. Penne I can not act 
for you. You have a letter; it is written by that gentleman; 
it is addressed to Mr. Pol whole; it says nothing about Barba- 
does, and would serve for Jamaica or foi; Virginia. • So great a 
sum as two hundred guineas can not have been forgotten. I 
exhort you, therefore, to patience until other letters arrive. 
Why, two hundred guineas would have gone far to redeem you 
all three, and to maintain you for a great while. Gentlemen, 
I am grieved for you, because there is no help for it, but that 
you must go with the planter who hath bought you, and obey 
his orders. I will, however, send to Mr. Penne an account of 
this charge, and I would advise that you lose no time in writing 
to your friends at home. 

“Heart up, ladT^ cried Barnaby, for I turned faint ujoon 
this terrible discovery, and would have fallen but he held me 
up. “Patience; our turn will come.'^^ 

“ Write that letter,” said the merchant again. “ Write that 
letter quickly, so that it may go with the next vessel. Other- 
wise — the work is sometimes hard, and the heat is great. So 
he turned and left us. ^ 

“ Courage, man,” said Barnaby. “ To every dog his day. 
If now, for five minutes only, I could have my thumb on Mr. 
Penne ^s windpipe and my fingers round his neck. And I 


2S4: 


FOK FAITH AKD FREEDOM. 


thought to spend the evening joyfully at Mother Eosemary^s. 
Courage, lad. I have seen already/" he whispered, a dozen 
boats in the bay, any one of which will serve our turn. "" 

But Eobin paid no heed whatever happened. He stood up 
when his name was called, and was sold without showing any 
emotion. When we found that we had been tricked he seemed 
as if he neither heard nor regarded. 

When all was ready we were marched, twenty in number, 
along a white and dusty road, to our estate. By great good 
fortune — rather by Providence — we were all bought by the 
same master. He was, it is true, a bad man; but to be to- 
gether was a happiness which we could not expect. He bought 
us all because he understood that we belonged to the same 
family, and that one of position, in the hope of receiving sub- 
stantial ransom. This man rode with us, accompanied by two 
overseers (these were themselves under the same sentence), 
who cracked their whips continually, and cursed us if we 
lagged. Their bark was worse, we afterward found, than 
their bite, for it was only in the master"s presence that they 
behaved thus brutishly, and in order to curry favor with him, 
and to prevent being reduced again to the rank of those who 
served in the field. There was no doubt, from the very outset, 
that we were afflicted with a master whose like, I would hope, 
is not to be found upon the Island of Barbadoes. Briefly, he 
was one whose appearance, voice and manner all alike pro- 
claimed him openly to all the world as a drunkard, a profli- 
gate and a blasphemer. A drunkard he was of that kind who 
are seldom wholly drunk and yet are never sober; who begin 
the day with a glass, and go on taking more glasses al] day 
long, with small ale for breakfast, strong ale and Madeira for 
dinner, a tankard in the afternoon, and for supper more strong 
ale and Madeira, and before bed another tankard; As for 
compassion, or tenderness, or any of the virtues which a man 
who holds other men in slavery ought to possess, he h^d none 
of them. 

Let me speak of him with no more bitterness than is neces- 
sary. We have, I think, all forgiven him, and he hath long 
since gone to a place where he can do no more harm to any, 
but awaiteth judgment — perhaps, in the sure and certain hope j 

of which the funeral service speaks — but this is open to doubt. j 

When we were arrived at the estate the master dismounted, 
gave his horse to a negro, and orderecl us to be drawn up in 
line. 

He then made a short speech. He said that he had bought 
us, rebels and villains as we were, and that he meant to get 


FOE FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


285 


his money ""s worth out of us or he would cut us all to pieces; 
other things he told us, which I pass over because they were 
but repetitions of this assurance. He then proceeded to ex- 
amine us in detail. When he came to me he cursed and swore 
because he said he had been made to pay for a sound, proper 
man, and had got a crook-back for his bargain. I told him 
that, with submission, he might find the crook-back, who was 
a physician, a more profitable bargain than many a stronger 
man. 

What?^^ he roared. ‘^Thou art a physician, eh? 
Woulds^t slink out of the field-work and sit idle among bot- 
tles and boluses? John — he turned to one of the overseers — 
pay particular attention, I command thee, to this learned 
physician. If he so much as turn round in his work, make 
his shoulders smart. 

Ay, ay, sir,^"" said the overseer. 

And what art thou, sirrah ?^^ He turned next to Barnaby. 
Another learned physician, no doubt — or a divine, a bishop, 
likely, or a dean at the least?^^ 

As for what I was,'’^ said Barnaby, that is neither here 
nor there. For what I am? I suppose I am your servant for 
ten years, or until our pardons are sent us.^^ 

Thou art an impudent dog, I dare swear, returned the 
master. I remember thou wast a captain in the rebel army, 
once a sailor. Well, take care lest thou taste the cat.^^ 

Gentlemen who are made to taste the cat,^^ said Barnaby, 
^ ‘ are apt to remember the taste of it when their time is up. ’ 
What?^^ he cried. You dare to threaten? Take that, 
and that!^^ and so began to belabor him about the head. I 
trembled lest Barnaby should return the blows. But he did 
not. He only held up his arm to protect his head, and pres- 
ently, when the master desisted, he shook himself like a dog. 

I shall remember the taste of that wood,^"^ he said, quietly. 
The master looked a^ if he would renew the cudgeling, but 
thought better of it. 

Then, without more violence, we were assigned our quarters. 
A cottage or hut was given to us. We were served with a 
hammock and a rug each; a pannikin, basin, spoon and plat- 
ter for each; a Monmouth cap; two shirts, common and 
coarse, two pairs of canvas breeches, and a pair of shoes for 
each — so that we looked for all the world like the fellows who 
live by loading and unloading the ships in the port of Bristol. 
Yet the change after the long voyage was grateful. They 
served us next with some of the stuff they call loblollie, and 
then the night fell and we lay down in our hammocks, which 


286 


FOR FAITH AND FREEHOM. 


wore certainly softer than the planks of the ship, and then fell 
fast asleep in spite of the humming and the biting of the 
merry wings, and so slept till the break of day. 


CHAPTEE XL. 

WITH THE HOE. 

Before it was daylight we were aroused by the discordant 
clang of a bell; work was about to begin. 

In these latitudes there is little twilight; the day begins as 
it ends, with a kind of suddenness. I arose, being thus sum- 
moned, and looked out. Long rays of light were shooting up 
the sky from the east, and, though the stars were still visible, 
the day was fast breaking. In a tew moments it became al- 
ready so light that I could see across the yard — or what the 
Italians would call the piazza — with its ragged banana leaves, 
the figures of our fellow-slaves moving about the huts, and 
hear their voices. Alas! sad and melancholy are the voices of 
those who work upon his majesty^s Plantations. Two old 
negresses went about among the new-comers carrying a 
bucketful of a yellow mess, which they distributed among us, 
and giving us to understand that this bowl of yellow porridge, 
or loblollie, made out of Indian corn, was all we should have 
before dinner. They also gave us to understand in their 
broken English, which is far worse than the' jargon talked by 
some of our country people, that we should have to prepare 
our own meals for the future and that they would show us 
how to make this delectable mess. 

Eat it,^^ said Barnaby; a pig is better fed at home. Eat 
it, Eobin, lest thou faint in the sun. Perhaps there will be 
something better for dinner. Heigho! only to think of Mother 
Eosemary% where I thought to lie last night! Patience, lads!^^ 

One would not seem to dwell too lo^g on the simple fare of 
convicts, therefore I will say, once for all, that our rations 
consisted of nothing at all, but the Indian meal, and of salt 
beef or salt fish. The old hands and the negro slaves know 
how to improve their fare in many ways, and humane masters 
will give their , servants quantities of the fruits such as giow 
here in great abundance — as plantains, lemons, limes, bananas, 
guavas, and the . like. And many of the black slaves have 
small gardens behind their huts, where they grow onions, 
yams, potatoes, and other things, which they cultivate on 
Sundays. They are all great thieves also, stealing, whenever 
they can, poultry, eggs and fruit, so that they grow fat and 


FOR FAITH AKB FREEDOM. 


m 


sleeky while the white servants daily grow more meager, 
and fall into diseases by the poorness of the food. Then, 
as to drink, there are many kinds of drink (apart from 
the wines of Spain, Portugal, Canary, Madeira and France) 
made in the country itself, such as mobbie, which is a fer- 
mented liquor of potatoes; and perino, from the liquor of 
chewed cassava root; punch, which is water and sugar left to 
work for ten days; rum, which is distilled in every ingenio, 
and is a spirit as strong as brandy, but not so wholesome. 
Those who have been long in the island, even the servants, 
though without a penny, know how and where to get these 
drinks; and since there is no consoler, to the common sort, so 
good as strong drink, those who are able to drink every day of 
these things become somewhat reconciled to their lot. 

Come out, ye dogs of rebels and traitors It was the 
loud and harsh voice of the master himself, who thus disturbed 
us at our breakfast. ^Twas his custom thus to rise early, and 
to witness the beginning of the day^s work. And ^twas his 
kindly nature which impelled him thus to welcome and en- 
courage his newly brought slaves. Come out, I say. Ye 
shall now show of what stuff ye are made. Instead of pulling 
down your lawful king, ye shall pull up your lawful master 
and make him rich. If ye never did a day’s work in, your 
lives ye shall now learn the how by the must. Come forth, I 
say, ye lazy, guzzling skulkers!” 

Ay, ay,” said Barnaby, leisurely scraping his bowl, we 
are like, indeed, to be overfed here. ” He rolled sailor fashion 
out of the hut. 

Barnaby,” I said, “ for God’s sake say nothing to anger 
the master. There is no help but in patience and in hope.” 

So we, too, went forth. The master, red-faced as he was, 
looked as if he had been drinking already. 

^‘So,” he cried, ‘^here is the learned physician. Your 
health, doctor. And here is the gallant captain who was 
once a sailor. The air of the fields, captain, will remind you, 
perchance, of the quarter-deck. This young gentleman looks 
so gallant and gay that I warrant he will ply the hoe with a 
light and frolic heart. Your healths, gentlemen. Hark ye, 
now. You are come of a good stock, I hear. Therefore have 
I bought you at a great price, looking to get my money back 
and more. Some planters would suffer you to lie at your 
ease, covered up with bonavist and Madeira till the money 
comes. As for me, I shall now show you what you will con- 
tinue to do, unless the money comes. Therefore you will at 
once, I doubt not, ask for paper and pen and presently write. 


288 


FOB FAllIi AND FREEDOM* 


Sixty pounds apiece, gentlemen^ — not one penny less — will pur- 
chase your freedom. Till then, the fields. And no difference 
between white and black; but one whip for both.^^ 

We made no reply, but took the hoes which were given out 
to us, and marched with the rest of the melancholy troop. 

There were as many blacks as whites. We were divided 
into gangs; with every gang a driver armed with a whip; and 
over all the overseers, who, by their severity, showed their zeal 
for the master. The condition of slavery hath in it something 
devilish, both for those who are slaves and those who are mas- 
ters. The former it drives into despair, and fills with cun- 
ning, dishonesty, treachery and revenge. Why, the slaves 
have been known to rise in rebellion, and while they had the 
power have inflicted tortures unheard of upon their masters. 
The latter it makes cruel and unfeeling; it tempts them con- 
tinually to sins of all kinds; it puts into their power the lives, 
the bodies — nay, the very souls — of the poor folk whom they 
buy. I do maintain, and conceal not my opinion, that no 
man ought, in a Christian country, to be a slave except for a 
term of years, and then for punishment. I have been myself 
a slave, and I know the misery and the injustice of the con- 
dition. But it is idle to hope that the planters will abandon 
this^eans of cultivating 'their estates, and it is certain that in 
horfRuntries no man will work except by compulsion. 

ffiie whip carried by the driver is a dreadful instrument., 
long, thick, and strongly plaited, with a short handle. It is 
coiled and slung round the shoulders when it is not being used 
to terrify or to punish,, and I know well that its loud crack 
produces upon the mind a sensation of fear and of horror such 
as the thunder of artillery or the sight of the enemy charging 
^uld never cause even to a coward.^ The fellows are also 
fR^tremely dexterous in the use of it; they can inflict a punish- 
ment not worse than the flogging of a school-boy; or, with no 
greater outward show of strength, they will cut and gash the 
flesh like a Russian executioner with his cruel instrument 
which they call the knout. 

For slight offenses such as laziness or carelessness in the 
field the former is administered, but for serious offenses the 
latter. One sad execution, I can not call it less, I myself wit- 
nessed. What the poor wretch had done I know not, but I 
can never .loFget his piercing shrieks as the whip cut into the 
bleeding fl'esh. This is not punishment; it is savage and re- 
vengeful cruelty. Yet the master and the overseers looked on 
with callous eyes. 

They marched us to a field about half a mile from our vil- 


I’OR FAITH AKB FBIEBOM. 


289 


lage or camp, and there, drawing ns up in line, set us to 
work. Our task was with the hoe to dig out square holes, 
each of the same depth and size, in which the sugar-canes are 
planted, a small piece of old cane being laid in each. These 
holes are cut with regularity and exactness, in long lines, and 
equally distant from each other. It is the driver^s business to 
keep all at work at the same rate of progress, so that no one 
should lag behind, no one should stop to rest or breathe, no 
one should do less than his neighbors. The poor wretches, 
with bent bodies streaming with their exertions, speedily be- 
come afflicted with a burning thirst; their legs tremble; their 
backs grow stiff and ache; their whole bodies become full of 
pain; and yet they may not rest nor stand upright to breathe 
awhile, nor stop to drink, until the driver calls a halt. Prom 
time to time the negroes — men and women alike — were 
dragged out of the ranks and laid on the ground, three or 
four at a time, to receive lashes for not making the holes deep 
enough or fast enough. At home, one can daily see the poor 
creatures flogged in Bridewell; every day there are rogues tied 
to the cart-wheel and flogged well-nigh to death; but a plow- 
man is not flogged for the badness of his furrow, nor is a cob- 
bler flogged because he maketh his shoon ill. And our men do 
not shriek and scream so wildly as the negroes, who ^re igno- 
rant people and have never learned the least self-restraint. It 
was horrid also to see how their bodies were scarred with the 
marks of old floggings, and branded with letters to show by 
whom they had been bought. As for our poor fellows, who 
had been brave recruits in Monmouth^s army, they trembled 
at the sight, and worked all the harder; yet some of them 
with the tears in their eyes, to think that they should be 
brought to such a dismal fate and to herd with these poor 
ignorant black people. 

^Twas the design of the master to set us to the very hardest 
work from the beginning, so that we should be the more anx- 
ious to get remission of our pains. For it must not be sup- 
; posed that all the work on the estate was so hard and irksome 
i as that with the hoes — which is generally kept for the strongest 
I and hardiest of the negroes, men and women. There are many 
other employments; some are put to weed the canes, some to 
fell wood, some to cleave it, some to attend the ingenio, the 
boiling-house, the still-house, the curing-house; some to cut 
the maize, some to gather provisions, of bonavist, maize, yams, 
potatoes, cassava, and the like. Some for the smithes forge; 
some to attend to the oxen and sheep; some to the camels and 
assenegoes, and the like; so that had the master pleased he 


290 


FOR FAITH ANT) FREEDOM* 


might have set us to work better fitted to English gentlemen. 
Well, his greediness and cruelty were defeated, as you will see. 
As for the domestic economy of the estate, there were on it 
over 500 acres of land, of which 200 were planted with sugar, 
80 for pasture, 120 for wood, 30 for tobacco, 5 for ginger, and 
as many for cotton- wool, and 70 for provisions — viz. : corn, 
potatoes, plantains, cassava and bonavist — with a few for 
fruit. There were ninety-six negroes, two or three Indian 
women with their children, and twenty-eight Christian serv- 
ants, of whom we were three. 

At eleven o^clock we were marched back to dinner. At one 
we went out again, the sun being at this time of the day very 
fierce, though January is the coldest month in the year. We 
worked till six o^clock in the evening, when we returned. 

This,^"" said Eobin, with a groan, is what we have now 
to do every day for ten years. 

Heart up, lads,^^ said Barnaby, our time will come. 
Give me time to turn round, as a body may say. Why, the 
harbor is full of boats. Let me get to the port and look 
round a bit. If we had any money, now — but that is past 
praying for. Courage and patience ! Doctor, you hoe too 
fast; no one looks for zeal. Follow the example of the black 
fellows, who think all day long how they shall get off with as 
little work as possible. As for their lash, I doubt whether 
they dare to lay it about us, though they may talk. Because, 
you see, even if we do not escape, we shall some time or other, 
through the rector^s efforts, get a pardon, and then we are 
gentlemen again; and when that moment arrives I will make 
this master of ours fight, willy-nilly, and I will kill liim, d^ye 
see, before I go home to kill Benjamin. 

He then went bn to discourse (either with the hope of raising 
our spirits or because it cheered his mind just to set them 
forth) upon his plans for the means of escape. 

A boat,^^ he said, I can seize. There are many which 
would serve our purpose. But a boat without victuals w^ould 
be of little use. One would not be accused of stealing, yet we 
may have to break into the store and take therefrom some 
beef or biscuit. But where to store our victuals? We may 
liave a voyage of three pr four hundred knots before us. That 
is nothing for a tight little boat when the hurricane season is 
over. We have no compass either — I must lay hands upon a 
compass. The first Saturday night I will make for the port 
and cast about. Lift up your head, Eobin. Why, man, all 
bad times pass if only one hath patience. 

It was this very working in the field, by which the master 




t 


FOR FAITH ANT) FREEDOM. 291 

thought; to drive us into despair, which caused in the long run 
our deliverance, and that in the most unexpected manner. 


^ CHAPTBE XLL 

O]^ COHDITIOHS. 

This servitude endured for a week, during which we were 
driven forth with the negroes to the hardest and most intoler- 
able toil, the master^s intenticn being so to disgust us with the 
life as to make us write the most urgent letters to our friends 
at home; since, as we told him, two hundred guineas had been 
already paid on our account (though none of the money was 
used for the purpose), he supposed that another two hundred 
could easily be raised. V/herefore, while those of the new serv- . 
ants who were common country lads were placed in the in- 
genio or the curing-house, where the work is sheltered from 
the scorching sun, we were made to endure every hardship 
that the place permitted. In the event, however, the matins 
greed was disappointed and his cruelty made of none avail. 

In fact, the thing I had foreseen quickly came to pass. 
When a man lies in a lethargy of despair, his body, no longer 
fortified by a cheerful mind, presently falls into any disease 
which is lurking in the air. Diseases of all kinds may be 
likened unto wild beasts; invisible, always on the prowl, seek- 
ing whom they may devour. The young fall victims to some,- 
the weak to others; the drunkards and gluttons to others; the 
old to others; and the lethargic, again, to others. , It was not 
surprising to me, therefore, when Eobin, coming home one 
evening, fell to shivering and shaking, chattering with his 
teeth, and showing every external sign of cold, though the 
evening was still warm, and the sun hM that day been more 
than commonly hot. Also, he turned away from his food, 
and would eat nothing. Therefore, as there was nothing we 
could give him, we covered 'him with our rugs; and he pres- 
ently fell asleep. But in the morning, when we awoke, be- 
hold! Eobin was in a high fever; his hands and head burning 
hot, his cheek flushed red, his eyes rolling and his brain wan- 
dering.^ I went forth and called the overseer to come and look 
at him.' At first he cursed and swore, saying that the man 
was malingering (that is to say, pretending to be sick, in order 
to avoid work); that if he was a negro instead of a gentleman, 
a few cuts with his lash should shortly bring him to his senses; 
that for his part he liked not this mixing of gentlemen with 
negroes; and that, finally, I must go and bring forth my sick 


292 


FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. 


man or take it upon myself to face the master, who would 
probably drive him afield with the stick. 

Sir/^ I said, what the master may do I know not. 
Murder may be done by any who are wicked enough. For my 
part, I am a physician, and I tell you that to make this man 
go forth to work will be murder. But indeed he is light- 
headed, and with a thousand lashes you could not make him 
understand or obey."^^ 

Well, he grumbled, but he followed me into the hut. 

^^The man hath had a sunstroke, he said. I wonder 
that any of you have escaped. Well, we can carry him to the 
sick-house, where he will die. ’ When a new hand is taken this 
way he always dies. 

‘‘ Perhaps he will not die,^^ I said, if he is properly treat- 
ed. If he is given nothing but this diet of liblollie and salt 
beef, and nothing to drink but the fdul water oi the pond, 
and no other doctor than an ignorant old n egress, he will surely 
die.^^ 

Good Lord, man!^^ said the fellow. What do you ex- 
pect in this country? It is the master^s loss, not mine. Carry 
him between you to the sick-house. 

So we carried Eobin to the sick-house. 

At home we should account it a barn, being a great place 
with a thatched roof, the windows open without shutter or lat- 
tice, the door breaking away from its hinges. Within there 
was a black lying on a pallet, groaning most piteously. The 
poor wretch, for something that he had done, I know not 
what, had his fiesh cut to pieces with the whip. With him 
was an old negress, mumbling and mouthing. 

We laid Eobin on another pallet, and covered him with a 
rug. 

‘^Now, man,^'’ said the overseer, leave him there, and 
come forth to your work. 

Nay,^^ I said, he must not be left. I am a physician, 
and I must stay beside him.""^ 

If he were your son I would not suffer you to stay with 
him.^^ 

Man!^^ I cried. Hast thou no pity?^’ 

Pity!'’^ The fellow grinned. Pity! quotha. Pity! Is 
this a place for pity? Why, if I showed any pity I should be 
working beside you in the fields. It is because I have no pity 
that I am overseer. Look here — he showed me his left 
hand, which had been branded with a red-hot iron. This 
was done in Newgate seven years ago and more. Three years 
more I have to serve. That done, I may begin to show some 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


pity; not before. Pity is scarce among the drivers of Barba- 
does. As well ask the beadle for pity when he flogs a ^pren- 
tice. 

Let me go to the master, then.""^ 

Best not; best not. Let this man die, and keep yourself 
alive. The morning is the worst time for him, because last 
night^s drink is still in his head. Likely as not you will but 
make the sick man^s case and your own worse. Leave him in 
the sick-house, and go back to him in the evening.'''' 

The man spoke with some compassion in his eyes. Just 
then, however, a negro boy came running from the house and 
spoke to the overseer. 

Why,^^ he said, nothing could be more pat. You can 
speak to the master, if you please. He is in pain, and ma- 
dame sends for Doctor Humphrey Ohallis. Go, doctor. If 
you cure him, you will be a lucky man. If you can not cure 
him, the Lord have mercy upon you! Whereas, if you suffer 
him to die,^^ he added, with a grin and a whisper, every man 
on the estate will fall down and worship you. Let him die! 
Let him die !^^ 

I followed the boy, who took me to that part of the house 
which fronts the west and north. It was a mean house of 
wood, low and small, considering how wealthy a man was the 
master of it; on three sides, however, there was built out a 
kind of loggia, as the Italians call it, of wood instead of mar- 
ble, forming a cloister or open chamber, outside the house. 
They call it a veranda, and part of it they hang with mats 
made of grass, so as to keep it shaded in the afternoon and 
evening when the sun is in the west. The boy brought me to 
this place, pointed to a chair where the master sat, and then 
ran away as quickly as he could. 

It was easy to understand why he ran away, because the 
master at this moment sprung out of his chair and began to 
stamp up and down the veranda, roaring and cursing. He 
was clad in a wjiite linen dressing-gown and linen niglit-cap. 
On a small table beside him stood a bottle of beer, newly 
opened, and a silver tankard. 

When he saw me he began to swear at me for my delay in 
coming, though I had not lost a moment. 

Sir/^ I said, if you will cease railing and blaspheming I 
vill examine into your malady. Otherwise I will do nothing 
foryou."^ 

‘‘What?*^ he cried. You dare to make conditions with 
me, you dog, you!'^ 

Pair words,"" I said. Fair words. I am your servant. 


204 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


to work on your plantation as you may command. I am not 
your physician; and 1 promise you, sir, upon the honor of a 
gentleman, and without, using the sacred Name which is so 
often on your lips, that if you continue to rail at me I will 
suffer you to die rather than stir a little finger in your help.'^^ 

Suffer the physician to examine the place,^^ said a woman^s 
voice. What good is it to curse and to swear 

The voice came from a hammock swinging at the end of the 
veranda. It was made, I observed, of a kind of coarse grass 
loosely woven. 

The man sat down and sulkily bade me find a remedy for 
the pain which he was enduring. So I consented, and exam- 
ined his upper jaw, where I soon found out the cause of his 
pain in a good-sized tumor formed over the fangs of a grinder. 
Such a thing causes agony even to a person of cool blood, but 
to a man whose veins are inflamed with strong drink the pain 
of it is maddening. 

You have got a tumor, I told him. It has been form- 
ing for some days. It has now nearly, or quite, reached its 
head. It began about the time when you were cursing and 
insulting certain unfortunate gentlemen, who are, for the 
time, under your power. Take it, therefore, as a Divine judg- 
ment upon you for your cruelty and insolence, 

He glared at me but said nothing, the hope of relief causing 
him to receive this admonition with patience, if not in good 
part. Besides, my finger was still upon the spot, and if I so 
much as pressed gently I could cause him agony unspeakable. 
Truly the power of the physician is great. 

The pain,'’'’ I told him, is already grown almost intoler- 
able. But it will be much greater in a few hours unless some- 
thing is done. It is now like unto a little ball of red-hot fire 
in your jaw; in an hour or two it will seem as if the whole of 
your face was a burning fiery furnace; your cheek will swell 
out until your left eye is closed; your tortures, which now 
make you bawl, will then make you scream’; you now . walk 
about and stamp; you will then lie down on your back and 
kick. No negro^ slave ever sufiered half so much under your 
accursed lash as you will suffer under this tumor — unless some- 
thing is done. 

“ Doctor — it was again the woman^s voice from the ham- 
mock — you have frightened him enough.'’'’ 

Strong drink, I went on, pointing to the tankard, will 
only make you worse. It infiames your blood and adds fuel 
to the raging fire. Unless something is done the pain will be 


FOB FAITH AND FBEEDOM. 2dt) 

followed by delirium; that by fever, and the fever by death. 
Sir, are you prepared for death?^^ 

He turned horribly pale and gasped. 

“ Do something for me!^^ he said. Do something for me, 
and that without more words!^^ 

Nay; but I will first make a bargain with you. There is 
in the sick-house a gentleman, my cousin — Eobin Challis by 
name — one of the newly arrived rebels, and your servant. He 
is lying sick unto death of a sunstroke and fever caused by 
your hellish cruelty in sending him out to work on the fields 
with the negroes, instead of putting him to light labor in the 
ingenio or elsewhere. I say, his sickness is caused, by your 
barbarity. Wherefore I will do nothing for you at all — do you 
hear? Nothing! nothing! unless I am set free to do all I can 
for him. Yea; and I must have such cordials and generous 
diet as the place can afford, otherwise I will not stir a finger to 
help you. Otherwise — endure the torments of the damned; 
rave in madness and in fever. Die and go to your own place. 
I will not help you. So; that is my last word.^^ . 

Upon this I really thought that the man had gone stark, 
staring mad; for, at the impudence of a mere servant (though 
a gentleman of far better family than his own) daring to make 
conditions to him, he became purple in the cheeks, and seizing 
his great stick which lay on the table, he began belaboring me 
with all his might about the head and shoulders; but I caught 
up a chair and used it for a shield while he capered about, 
.striking wildly and swearing most horribly. 

At this moment the lady who was in the hammock stepped 
out of it and walked toward us slowly like a queen. She was 
without any doubt the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. 
She was dressed in a kind of dressing-gown of fiowered silk, 
which covered her from head to foot: her head was adorned 
with the mosi^ lovely glossy black ringlets; a heavy gold chain 
lay round her neck, and a chain of gold with pearls was twined 
in her hair, so that it looked like a coronet; her fingers were 
covered with rings, and gold bracelets hung upon her bare 
white arms. Her figure was tall and full; her face inclined to 
the Spanish, being full and yet regular, with large black eyes. 
Though I was fighting with a madman, I could not resist the 
wish that I could paint her; and I plainly perceived that she 
was one of that race which is called quadroon, being most like- 
ly the daughter of a mulatto woman and a white father. This 
was evident by the character of her skin, which had in it what 
the Italians call the morlidezza, and by a certain dark hue 
undei the eyes. 


296 


mn FAITH AKH mmnom 


Why/^ she said, speaking to the master as if he had been 
a petulant school-boy, you only make yourself worse by all 
this fury. Sit down, and lay aside your stick. And you, sir 
— she addressed herself tome — you may be a great physician, 
and at home a gentleman, but here you are a servant, and 
therefore bound to help your master in all you can without 
first making conditions. 

I know too well,^^ I replied. He bought me as his serv- 
ant, but not as his physician. I will not heal him without my 
fee; and my fee is that my sick cousin be attended to with 
humanity. 

“ Take him away!^^ cried the master, beside himself with 
rage. Clap him in the stocks! Let him sit there all day 
long in the sun! He shall have nothing to eat or to drink! 
In the evening he shall be flogged! If it was the Duke of 
Monmouth himself, he should be tied up and flogged! Where 
the devil are the servants?^^ 

A great hulking negro came running. 

You have now,^^ I told him, quietly^ permitted yourself 
to be inflamed with violent rage. The pain will therefore 
more rapidly increase. When it becomes intolerable you will 
be glad to send for me.^^ 

The negro dragged me away (but I made no resistance), and 
led me to the court-yard, where stood the stocks and a whip- 
ping-post. He pointed to the latter with a horrid grin, and 
then laid me fast in the former. Fortunately he left me my 
hat, otherwise the hot sun would have made an end of me. I 
was, however, quite easy in my mind. I knew that this poor 
wretch, who already suffered so horribly, would before long 
feel in that jaw of his, as it were, a ball of fire. He would 
drink in order to deaden the pain; but the wine would only 
make the agony more horrible. Then he would be forced to 
send for me. 

This, in fact, was exactly what he did, 

I sat in those abominable stocks for no more than an hour. 
Then madame herself came to me, followed by the negro fel- 
low who had locked my heels in those two holes. 

He is now much worse, she said. ‘‘ He is now in pain 
that can not be endured. Canst thou truly relieve his suffer- 
mgr 

Certainly I can. But on conditions. My cousin will die 
if he is neglected. Suffer me to minister to ' his needs. Give 
him what ] want for him and I will cure your — I did not 
know whether I mi^ht sav your husband, so I changed the 


FOE FAITH AHB FEEEBOM. • 297 

words into — my master. After that I will cheerfully endure 
again his accursed cruelty of the fields.''^ 

She bade the negro unlock the bar. 

Come/^ she said. Let us hear no more about any bar- 
gains. I will see to it that you are able to attend to your 
cousin. Nay, there is an unfortunate young gentlewoman 
here, a rebel, and a servant like yourself — for the last week 
she doth nothing but weep for the misfortunes of her friends — 
meaning you and your company. I will ask her to nurse the 
sick man. She will desire nothing better, being a most ten- 
der-hearted woman. And as for you, it will be easy for you to 
look after your cousin and your master at the same time.^^ 
Then, madame,^^ I replied, take me to him, and I will 
speedily do all I can to relieve him.^^ 

I found my patient in a condition of mind and body most 
dangerous. I wondered that he had not already fallen into a 
fit, so great was his wrath and so dreadful his pain. He rolled 
his eyes; his cheeks were purple; he clinched his fists; he 
would have gnashed his teeth but for the pain in his jaws. 

Make yourself easy,^^ said madame. This learned phy- 
sician will cause your pain to cease. I have talked with him 
and put him into a better mind.^^ 

The master shook his head as much as to say that a better 
mind would hardly be arrived at without the assistance of the 
whipping-post; but the emergency of the case prevented that 
indulgence. Briefly, therefore, I took out my lancet and 
pierced the place, which instantly relieved the pain. Then I 
placed him in bed, bled him copiously, and forbade his taking 
anything stronger than small-beer. Freedom from pain and 
exhaustion presently caused him to fall into a deep and tran- 
quil sleep. After all this was done I was anxious to see Eobin. 

“ Madame,'’^ I said, I have now done all I can. He will 
awake at noon, I dare say. Give him a little broth, but not 
much. There is danger of fever. You had better call me 
again when he awakes. Warn him solemnly that rage, re- 
venge, cursing and beating must be all postponed until such 
time as he is stronger. I go to visit my cousin in the sick- 
house, where I await your commands. 

Sir,^ she said, courteously, I can not sufficiently thank 
your skill and zeal. You will find the nurse of whom I spoke 
in the sick-house with your cousin. She took with her some 
cordial, and will tell me what else you order for your patient. 
I hope your cousin may recover. But, indeed — she stopped 
and sighed. 

‘"You would say, madame, that it would be better for him 


m 


FOB FAITH AKH FREEDOM. 



and for us all to die. Perhaps so. But we must not choose 
to die, but rather strive to live, as more in accordance with the 
WordofGod.^^ 

The white servants had been hitherto the common rogues ■ 
and thieves and sweepings of your English streets, she said. 

Sturdy rogues are they all, who fear naught but the lash, 
and have nothing of tenderness left but tender skins. They . 
rob and steal; they will not work, save by compulsion; they 
are far worse than the negroes for laziness and drunkenness. , 
I know not why they are sent out, or why the planters ^uy 
them, when the blacks do so much better serve their turn, and 
they can without reproach beat and flog the negroes, while to 
flog and beat the whites is by some accounted cruel. 

‘‘ All this, madame, is doubtless true; but my friends are 
not the sweepings of the street. 

No; but you are treated as if you were. It is a new thing 
having gentlemen among the servants, and the planters are 
not yet accustomed to them. They are a masterful and a 
willful folk, the planters of Barbadoes; from childhood upward 
they have their own way, and brook hot opposition. You 
have seen into what a madness of wrath you threw the master * 
by your opposition. Believe me, sir, the place is not whole- 
some for you and for your friends. The master looks to get a 
profit not from your labor, but by your ransom. Sir^^ — she 
looked me very earnestly in the face — if you have friends at 
home — if you have any friends at all — entreat them — com- 
mand them — immediately to send money for your ransom. It 
will not cost them much. If you do not get the money you 
will most assuredly die, with the life that you will have to live. | 
All the white servants die except the very strongest and lusti- I 

est. Whether they work in the fields, or in the garden, or in I 

the ingenio, or in the stables, they die. They can not endure 
the hot sun and the hard fare. They presently catch fever, or 
a calenture, or a cramp, and so they die. This young gentle- 
woman who is now with your cousin will presently fall into 
melancholy and die. There is no help for her, or for you — be- 
lieve me, sir — there is no hope but to get your freedom. She 
broke olf here, and never at any other time spoke to me again 
upon this subject. 

In three weeks^ time, indeed, we were to regain our free- 
dom, but not in the way madame imagined. 

Before I go on to tell of the wonderful surprise which await- 
ed me I must say that there was, after this day, no more any 
question about the field-work for me. In this island, then, 
there was a great scarcity of physicians — nay, there were none 

.1 


FOE FAITH A HD FREEDOM. 


. 209 


properly qualified to call themselves physicians, though a few 
quacks. The sick servants on the estates were attended by the 
negresses, some of whom have, I confess, a wonderful knowl- 
edge of herbs — in which respect they may be likened to our 
countrywomen, who, for fevers, agues, toothache, and the like, 
are as good as any physicians in the world. It was therefore 
speedily rumored abroad that there was a physician upon my 
master^s estate, whereupon there was immediately a great de- 
mand for his services; and henceforth I went daily, with the 
master^ s consent, to visit the sick people on the neighboring 
estates — nay, I was even called upon by his Excellency the 
Lieutenant-Governor himself, Mr. Steed, for a complaint from 
which he suffered. And I not only gave advice and medicines, 
but I also received a fee just as if I had been practicing in 
London. But the fees went to my master, who took them all, 
and offered me no better diet than before. That, however, 
mattered little, because wherever I went I asked for, and 
always received, food of a more generous kind and a glass or 
two of wine, so that I fared well and kept my health during 
the short time that we remained upon the island. I had also 
to thank madame for many a glass of Madeira, dish of cocoa, 
plate of fruit, and other things, not only for my patient Eobin, 
but also for myself, and for another, of whom I have now to 
speak. 

When, therefore, the master was at length free from pain 
and in a comfortable sleep, I left him, with mad ame^s permis- 
sion, and sought the sick-house in a most melancholy mood, 
because I believed that Robin would surely die, whatever I 
should do. And I confess that, having had but little experi- 
ence of sunstroke and the kind of fever which followeth upon 
it, aud having no books to consult and no medicine at hand, I 
knew not what I could do for him. And the boasted skill of 
the physician, one must confess, availeth little against a dis- 
ease which hath once laid hold upon a man> ^Tis Jbetter for 
him so to order the lives of his patients while they are well as 
to prevent disease, just as those who dwell beside an unruly 
river (as I have seen upon the great River Rhone) build up a 
high levee, or bank, over which it can not pass. 

In the sick-house the floor was of earth without boards; 
there was no other furniture but two or three wooden j)allets, 
on each a coarse mattress with a rug; and all was horribly 
filthy, unwashed, and foul. Beside the pallet where Robin lay 
there knelt, praying, a woman with her head in her hands. 
Heavens! there was, then, in this dark and heathenish place 
one woman who still remembered her Maker! 




300 > 


FOR FArTH AND FREEDOM. 


Kobin was awake. His restless eyes rolled about; his hands 
clutched uneasily at his blanket; and he was talking. Alas! 
the poor brain, disordered and wandering, carried him back to 
the old village. He was at home again in imagination, though 
we were so far away. Yea; he had crossed the broad Atlantic, 
and was in fair Somerset, among the orchaixis and the hills. 
And only to hear him talk, the tears rolled down my cheeks. 

Grace, he said. Alas! he thought that he was again 
with the sweet companion of his youth. Grace, the nuts 
are ripe in the woods. We will to-morrow take a basket and 
go gather them. Benjamin shall not come to spoil sport. 
Besides, he would want to eat them all himself. Humphrey 
shall come, and you and I. That will be enough. 

Then his thoughts changed again. Oh, my dear,^^ he said 
— in a moment he had passed over ten years, and was now with 
his, mistress, a child no longer. My dear, thou hast so sweet 
a face. Nowhere in the whole world is there so sweet a face. 
I have always loved thy face; not a day but it has been in my 
mind — always my love, my sweetheart, my soul, my life. My 
dear, we will never leave the country; we want no grandeur of 
rank, apd state, and town; we will always continue here. Old 
age shall find us lovers still. Death can not part us, oh, my 
dear, save for a little while — and then sweet Heaven will unite 
us again to love each other forever and forever — 

Oh, Kobin! Robin! Robin!^^ 

I knew that voice. Oh, heavens! was I dreaming? Was I, 
too, wandering? Were we all back in Somerset? 

For the voice was none other than the voice of Grace herself! 


CHAPTER XLII. 

GRACE. 

Grace !^^ I cried. 

She rose from her knees and turned to meet me. Her face 
was pale; her eyes were heavy, and they were full of tears. 

Grace 

I saw you when you came here, a week ago,^^ she said. 

Oh, Humphrey, I saw you, and I was ashamed to let you 
know that I was here.^^ 

Ashamed? My dear, ashamed? But how? — why? — what 
dost thou here?^^ 

How could I meet Robin^s eyes after what I had done?^^ 

It was done for him, and for his mother, and for all of us. 
Poor child, there is no reason to be ashamed. 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 301 

And now I meet him and he is in a fever^ and his mind 
wanders; he knows me not.’’ 

He is sorely stricken, Grace; I know not how the disease 
may end, mind and body are sick alike. For the mind I can 
do nothing; for the body I can do but little; yet with cleanli- 
ness and good food we may help him to mend. But tell me, 
child, in the name of Heaven, how earnest thou in this place 

But before anything she would attend to the sick man. And 
presently she brought half a dozen negresses, who cleaned and 
swept the place, and sheets were fetched and a linen shirt, in 
which we dressed our patient, with such other things as we 
could devise for his comfort. Then I bathed his head with 
cold water, continually changing his bandages so as to keep 
him cool; and I took some blood from him, but not much, 
because he was greatly reduced by bad food and hard work. 

When he was a little easier we talked. But heavens! to 
think of the villainy which had worked its will upon this poor 
child! As if it was not enough that she should be forced to fly 
from a man who had so strangely betrayed her, and as if it 
was not enough ftiat she should be robbed of all her money — 
but she must also be put on board, falsely and treacherously, 
as one, like ourselves, sentenced to ten years^ servitude on the 
Plantations! For, indeed, I knew and was quite certain that 
none of the Maids of Taunton were thus sent abroad. It was 
notorious, before we were sent away, that, with the exception 
of Susan Blake, who died of jail-fever at Dorchester, all the 
maids were given to the queen^s ladies, and by them suffered 
to go free on the payment by their parents of thirty or forty 
pounds apiece. And as for Grace, she was a stranger in the 
place, and it was not known that she had joined that un- 
fortunate procession. So that if ever a man was kidnapper 
and villain, that man was George Penne. 

It behooves a physician to keep his mind under all circum- 
stances calm and composed. He must not suffer himself to be 
carried away by passion, by rage, hatred, or even anxiety. 
Yet I confess that my mind was clean distracted by the discov- 
ery that Grace herself was with us, a prisoner like ourselves; 
I was, I say, distracted^ our could I tell what to think of this 
event and its consequences. For, to begin with, the poor child 
was near those who would protect her. But what kind of pro- 
tection could be given by such helpless slaves? Then was she 
beyond her husband^s reach; he would not, it was quite cer- 
tain, get possession of her at this vast distance. So far she 
was safe. But then the master, who looked to make a profit 
by her, as he looked to make a profit by us — through the rail- 


302 


FOB FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


som of her friends! She. had no friends to ransom her. There 
was but one, the rector, and he was her husband^s father. 
The time would come when the avarice of the master would 
make him do or threaten something barbarous toward her. 
Then she had found favor with madame, this beautiful mulatto 
woman, whom Grace innocently supposed to be the mastery’s 
wife. And there was the young planter who wished to buy her 
with the honorable intention of marrying her. In short, I 
knew not what to think or to say, because at one moment it 
seemed as if it was the most providential thing in the world 
that Grace should have been brought here, and the next mo- 
ment it seemed as if her presence only magnified our evils. 

Nay,"’"’ she said, when I opened my mind to her, seeing 
that the world is so large, what but a special ruling of Provi- 
dence could have brought us all to this same island, out of the 
whole multitude of isles — and then again to this same estate 
out of so many? Humphrey, your faith was wont to be 
stronger. I believe — nay, I am quite sure — that it was for the 
strengthening and help of all alike, that this hath been or- 
dained. First, it enables me to nurse my poor Eobin — mine, 
alas! no longer! Yet must I still love him as long as I have a 
heart to beat. '^ 

Love him always, child, I said. This is no sin to love 
the companion of thy childhood, thy sweetheart, from whom 
thou wast torn by the most wicked treachery — but could say 
no more, because the contemplation of that sweet face, now so 
mournful, yet so patient, made my voice to choke and my eyes 
to fill with tears. Said I not that a physician must still keep 
his mind free from all emotion? 

All that day I conversed with her. We agreed that for the 
present she should neither acknowledge nor conceal the truth 
from madame, upon whose good-will were now placed all our 
hopes. That is to say, if madame questioned her she was to 
acknowledge that we were her former friends; but if madame 
neither suspected anything nor asked her anything, she should 
keep the matter to herself. She told me during this day all 
that had happened « unto her since I saw her last, when we 
marched out of Taunton. Among other things I heard of the 
woman called Deb, who was now working in the cane fields 
(she was one of a company whose duty it was to weed the 
(^anes). In the evening this woman, when the people returned, 
came to the sick-house. She was a great strapping woman, 
stronger than most men. She was dressed, like all the women 
on the estate, in a smock and petticoat, with a thick coif to 
keep off the sun, and a pair of strong shoes. 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


303 


She came to help her mistress, as she fondly called Grace. 
She wanted to sit up and watch the sick man, so that her mis- 
tress might go to sleep. But Grace refused. Then this faith- 
ful creature rolled herself up in her rug and laid herself at the 
door, so that no one should go in or out without stepping over 
her. And so she fell asleep. 

Then we began our night-watch, and talked in whispers sit- 
ting by the bedside of the fevered man. Presently, I forgot 
the wretchedness of our condition, the place where we were, 
our hopeless, helpless lot, our anxieties and our fears, in the 
joy and happiness of once more conversing with my mistress. 
She spoke to me after the manner of the old days, but with 
more seriousness, about the marvelous workings of the Lord 
among His people; and presently we began to talk of the music 
which we loved to play, and how the sweet concord and har- 
mony of the notes lifts up the soul; and of pictures and paint- 
ing, and Mr. BoscoreTs drawings, and my own poor attempts, 
and my studies in the schools, and so forth, as if my life was, 
indeed, but just beginning, and, instead of the Monmouth cap 
and the canvas breeches and common shirt, I was once more 
arrayed in velvet, with a physician^s wig and a gold-headed 
cane. 

Lastly she prayed, entreating merciful Heaven to bestow 
health of mind and enlargement of body to the sick man upon 
the bed, and her brother, and her dear friend (meaning rnyr 
self), and to all poor sufferers for religion; and she asked that, 
as it had been permitted that she should be taken from her 
earthly lover by treachery, so it might now be granted to her 
to lay down her life for his, so that he might go free and she 
die in his place. 

Through the open window I saw the four stars which make 
the constellation they call the Cruseroes,^^ being like a cross 
fixed in the heavens. The night was still, and there was no 
sound save the shrill noise of the. cigala, which is here as shrill 
as in Padua. Slave and master, fondman and free, were all 
asleep save in this house, where Eobin rolled his heavy head, 
and murmured without ceasing, and Grace communed with 
her God. Surely, surely, I thought, here was no room for 
doubt? This my mistress had been brought here by the hand 
of God Himself, to be as an angel or messenger of His own, 
for our help and succor — happily for our spiritual help alone, 
seeing that no longer was there any help from man. 




304 


FOK FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


CHAPTER XLIIL 

BARNABY HEARS THE NEWS. 

The master, my patient, got up from his bed m a few days, 
somewhat pale and weak after his copious blood-letting and 
the drastic medicines with which I purged the grossness of his 
habit and expelled the noxious humors caused by his many 
intemperances. These had greatly injured what we call — be- 
cause we know not what it is nor what else to call it — the pure 
volatile spirit, and, so to speak, turned sour the humor radi- 
calls — the sweet oil and balsamical virtues of the body. 1 gave 
him such counsel as was fitting for his case, admonishing him 
urgently to abstain from strong liquors, except in their moder- 
ate use; to drink only after his meals; to keep his head cool 
and sober; and above all things to repress and govern his 
raging temper, which would otherwise most certainly catch 
him by the throat like some fierce and invisible devil and 
throw him into a fit, and so kill him. I told him also what 
might be meant by the Wise Man, who certainly thought of 
all the bearings which his words could have, when he said that 
one who is slow to wrath is of great understanding, namely, 
that many men do throw away their lives by falling into ex- 
cessive fits of rage. 

For a day or two he followed my injunctions, taking a 
tankard of small ale to his breakfast, the same quantity with 
his dinner, a pint of Madeira for his supper, and a sober glass 
or two before going to bed. But when he grew well his 
brother planters came round him again, the drinking was re- 
newed, and in the morning I would find him again with 
parched throat, tongue dry, and shaking hand, ready to be- 
labor, to curse, and to rail at everybody. If one wanted an 
example for the young how strong drink biteth like a serpent 
and stingeth like an adder, here was a case the sight of which 
might have caused all young men to forswear drunkenness. 
Alas! there are plenty of such examples to be seen in every 
part of England; yet the younger men still continue to drink, 
and that, I think, worse than their fathers. This man, how- 
ever, who was not yet five-and-thirty, in the prime of strong 
and healthy manhood, had his finger joints swollen and stony 
from taking much wine; he commonly eat but little meat, 
craving continually for more drink; and his understanding, 
which was by nature, I doubt not, clear and strong, was now 


FOB FAITH AJSTD FREEDOM. 


305 


brutish and stupid. Thinking over this man and the power^ 
even unto death, which he possessed over his servants and 
slaves^ the words came into my mind: It is not for Kings^ 

0 Lemuel; it is not for Kings to drink wine, nor for Princes 
strong drink. 

Nay, more, and this I say knowing that many godly men 
will not agree with me, I am fully persuaded that there is no 
man in the whole world so good and strong in virtue and 
religion that he should be suffered to become the master or 
despot over any other man, even over a company of poor and 
ignorant blacks, or a gang of transported thieves. When I 
think of those unhappy people, driven forth in the morning, 
heavy eyed and downcast, to the hard day^s work; and when 

1 remember how they crept home at night, after being driven, 
cursed, and beaten all day long; and when I think upon their 
drivers, overseers, and masters, and of their hard and callous 
hearts — I am moved to cry aloud, if any would hear me, that 
to be a slave is wretched indeed; but that to own and to drive 
slaves should be a thing most dangerous, for any who would 
continue a member of Christas Church. 

When I told Barnaby the surprising news that his sister was 
not only safe, but was a servant like ourselves upon the same 
estate, I looked that he would rejoice. On the contrary, he 
fell into a strange mood, swearing at this ill stroke, as he 
called it. He said that he never had the least doubt as to her 
safety, seeing there were so many in the West Country who 
knew and respected her father, and would willingly shelter 
her. Then he dwelt upon certain evils — of which, I confess, 
I had thought little — which might befall her. And lastly he 
set forth with great plainness the increased dangers in escaping 
when one has to carry a woman or a wounded man — a thing, 
he pointed out, which had caused his own capture after 
Sedgemoor. 

Last Saturday night, he said, while you were sleeping 
I made my way to the port, and having a few shillings left, I 
sought out a tavern. . There is one hard by the bridge, a house 
of call for sailors, where I had the good fortune to find a fel- 
low who can do for us all we want — if his money hold out, 
which I doubt. He is, a carver by trade, and a convict like 
ourselves; but he is permitted by his master to work at his 
trade in the town. He hath been, it is true, branded in the 
hand; but. Lord! what signifies that? He was once a thief — 
well, he is now an honest lad again, who asks for nothing but 
to get home again. John Nuthall is his name.^^ 


306 


FOR FAITH AXD FREEDOM, 


Go OTij, Barnaby. We are already in such good company 
that another rogue or two matters little/^ 

This man came here secretly last night, while you were in 
the sick-house. He is very hot upon getting away. And be- 
cause I am a sailor and can navigate a craft, which he can not 
do, he will take with him not only myself, but also all my 
party. Now listen, Humphrey. He hath bought a boat of a 
Guinea man in the harbor; and because, to prevent the escape 
of servants, every boat is licensed and her owner has to give 
security to the Governor's officers, he hath taken this toat 
secretly up a little creek of which he knows, and hath there 
sunk her three feet deep. The masts, the sails, the oars, and 
the other gear he hath also safely bestowed in a secret place. 
But we can not sail without water, provisions, nor without a 
compass at least. If our party is to consist of sister, Robin, 
you, John Nuthall, and myself — five in all — we shall have to 
load the boat with provisions, and I must have a compass. I 
looked for a boatful with ourselves and John Nuthall.. Now 
we have Sis as well; and the boat is^but small. Where shall 
we get provisions? and where shall we lay our hands upon the 
money to buy what we want?'’^ 

He could talk of nothing else, because his mind was full of 
his plan. Yet it seemed to me a most desperate enterprise, 
thus to launch a small boat upon the wide ocean, and in this 
cockle-shell to brave the waves which are often fatal to the 
tallest ships. 

Tut, man,^^ said Barnaby. ‘‘We are not now in the sea- 
son of the tornadoes, and there is no other danger upon these 
seas. I would as lief be in an open boat as in a brigantine. 
Sharks may follow us, but they will not attack a boat; cala- 
maries they talk of, big enough to lay their arms round the 
boat and so to drag it under; but such monsters have I never 
seen, any more than I have seen the great whale of Norway or 
the monstrous birds of the Southern Seas. There is only one 
danger, Humphrey, my lad.^^ Here he laid his hand upon 
mine, and became mighty serious. “If we are taken we shall 
be flogged — all of us. Thirty-nine lasheS they will lay on, and 
they will brand us. For myself I value not their thirty-nine 
lashes a brass farthing, nor their branding with a hot iron, 
which can but make a man jump for a day or two. To me 
this risk against the chance of escape matters nothing. Why, 
when I was cabin-boy I got daily more than thirty-nine lashes 
— kicks, cuffs, and rope^’s-ending. Nay, I remember, when 
we sat over the Latin syntax together,, my daily ration must 
have been thirty-nine, more or less, and Dad^s arm was 


FOR FAITH AKD FREEDOM. 


307 


stronger than you would judge to look at him. If they catch 
me, let them lay on their thirty-nine and be damned to them ! 
But you and Eobin, I doubt, think otherwise/^ 

I would not willingly be flogged, Barnaby, if there were 
any way of escape — even by death/ ^ 

So I thought! So I thought 

And as for Eobin, if he recovers, which I doubt, he, too, 
if I know him, would rather be killed than be flogged/^ 

That comes of Oxford 1^^ said Barnaby. And then there 
is Sis. Humphrey, my lad, it goes to my heart to think of 
that poor girl stripped to be lashed like a black slave or a 
Bristol drab. 

Barnaby, she must never run that dreadful risk. 

Then she must remain behind, and here she runs that 
risk every day. What prevents yon drunken sot — the taste of 
that stick still sticks in my gizzard! — I say; what prevents him 
from tying her up to-day, or to-morrow, or every day?^^ 

Barnaby, 1 say that she must never run that risk, for if 
we are caught— I stopped. 

“ Before we are caught, you would say, Humphrey. We 
are of the same mind there. But who is to kill her? Not 
Eobin, for he loves her;; not you, because you have too great 
a kindness for her. Not I, because I am her brother. What 
should I say to my mother when I meet her after we are dead^ 
and she asks who killed Grace?^^ 

Barnaby, if she is to die, let us all die together. 

‘^Ay,^^ he replied, ‘^though I have, I confess, no great 
stomach for dying; yet since we have got her with us it must 
be done. ^Tis easy to let the water into the boat, and so in 
three minutes, with no suspicion at all, and my mother never 
to know anything about it, she would have said her last pray- 
ers, and we should be all sinking together, with never a gasp 
left.^^ 

I took him, after this talk, to the sick-house, where Grace 
was beginning her second night of nursing. Barnaby saluted 
his sister as briefly as if her presence was the thing he most 
expected. 

The room was lighted by a horn lanthorn containing a great 
candle, which gave enough light to see Eobin on the bed and 
Grace standing beside him. The woman called Deb was sitting 
OR the floor wrapped in her rug. 

Sis,^^ said Barnaby, I have heard from Humphrey how 
thou wast cozened out of thy money and enticed on board 
ship. Well, this world is fall of villains, and I doubt whether 
I shall live to kill them all. One I must kill and one I must 


308 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


cudgel. Patience^ therefore, and no more upon this head. 
WeU, Sis, dost love to be a servant 

Surely not, Barnaby. 

Wouldst like to get thy freedom again?^^ 

I know not the meaning of thy words, brother. Madame 
says that those who have interest at home may procure pardons 
for their friends in the Plantations. Also, that those whose 
friends have money may buy their freedom from servitude. I 
am sure that Mr. Boscorel would willingly do this for Robin 
and for Humphrey; but for myself — how can I ask him? 
How can I ever let him know where I am and in what con- 
dition?^^ 

Ay, ay, but 1 meant not that way. Child, wilt thou trust 
thyself to us?^^ 

She looked at Robin. I can not leave him,^^ she said. 

No, no; we shall wait until he is dead — or, perhaps, bet- 
ter. But he only added this to please his sister. When he 
is better. Sis, thou wilt not be afraid to trust thyself with us?^^ 

I am not afraid of any danger, even of death, with you, if 
that is the danger in your mind, Barnaby. 

Good! Then we understand each other. There are other 
dangers for a young and handsome woman — and may be worse 
dangers. Hast any money at all, by chance?^ ^ 

‘‘ Nay; the man Penne took all my money. 

Barnaby for five or six minutes without stopping spoke upon 
this topic after the manner of a sailor. My turn will come,^^ 
he added. No, money, child? ^Tis a great pity. Had we 
a few gold pieces now! Some women have rings and chains. 
But;, of course — 

Nay, brother; chains I never had, and as for rings, there 
were but two that ever I had — one from Robin, the day that I 
was plighted to him; and one from the man who made me 
marry him, and put it on in the church. The former did I 
break and throw away when I agreed — for your dear lives, 
Barnaby — oh! for the lives of all — 

know, I know,^^ said Barnaby. Patience — patience. 

Oh! I shall get such a chance some day!^^ 

The other I threw away when I fled from my husband at 
the church door.^^ 

Ay, ay* If we only had a little money. ^Tis pity that 
we should mil for want of a little money. 

Why,^^ said Grace, I had quite forgotten. I have some- 
thing that may bring money. She pulled from- her neck a 
black ribbon on which was a little leathern bag. Tis the 
ring the duke gave me at Ilchester long ago. I have never 


FOR FAITH AKD FREEDOM. 309 

parted with it, ^ God grant/ he said, when he gave it to me, 
‘ that it may bring thee Inck.^ Will the ring help, Barnaby?^^ 
I took it first from her hand. 

Why,^^ I said, it is a sweet and costly ring. Jewels I 
know and have studied. If I mistake not, these emeralds must 
be worth a great sum. But how shall we dispose of so valua- 
ble a ring in this place, and without causing suspicion?^^ 

Give it to me."^^ Barnaby took it, looked at it, and laid 
it, bag and all, in his pocket. There are at the port mer- 
chants of all kinds, who will buy a ship^s cargo of sugar one 
minute, and the next will sell you a red herring. They will 
also advance money upon a ring. As for suspicion, there are 
hundreds of convicts and servants here. ^Tis but to call the 
ring the property of such a one, and no questions will be 
asked. My friend John Nuthall, the carver, shall do this for 
us. And now. Sis, I think that our business is as good as 
done. Have no fear; we shall get away. First get Eobin 
well, and then — Here Barnaby gazed upon her face with 
affection and with pity. ‘‘ But, sister, understand rightly; 
Tis no child^s play of hide-and-seek. ""Tis life or death! — life 
or death! If we fiy we must never come back again! under- 
stand that well. 

Since we are in the Lord^s hands, brother, why should we 
fear? Take me with you; let me die, if you must die; and if 
you live I am content to live with you, so that my husband 
never find me out.^^ 


CHAPTEE XLIV. 

A SCARE. 

There is between the condition of the mind and that of the 
body an interdependence which can not hut be recognized by 
every physician. So greatly has this connection affected some 
of the modern physicians as to cause doubts in their minds 
whettier there be any life at all hereafter, or if, when the pulse 
ceases to beat, the whole man should become a dead and sense- 
less lump of clay. In this they confuse the immortal soul with 
the perishable instruments of brain and body, through which 
in life it manifests its being and betrays its true nature, 
whether of good or ill. 

Thus the condition in which Eobin now lay clearly corre- 
sponded, as I now understand, with the state of his mind in- 
duced by the news that Grace, to save his life, had been be- 
trayed into marrying his cousin. For at the hearing of that 


310 


FOK FAITH A HD FREEDOM. 


dreadful news he was seized with such vj transport of rage — not 
against that poor innocent victim, but against his cousin — as 
threatened to throw him into madness; and on recovering from 
this access he presently fell into a kind of despair, in which he 
languished during the whole voyage. So also in a correspond- 
ing manner, after a fever, the violence of which was like to 
have torn liim to pieces, he fell into a lethargy in which, 
though his fever left him, he continued to wander in his mind, 
and grew, as I could not fail to mark, daily weaker in his 
body, refusing to eat, though Grace brought him dainty broth 
of chickdn, delicate panadas of bread and butter, fruit boiled 
with sugar, and other things fit to tempt a sick man^s appetite, 
provided by the goodness of madame. This lady was in re- 
ligion a Eomanist; by birth she was a Spanish quadroon. To 
escape the slavery to which the color of her grandmother 
doomed her, she escaped from Cuba and found her way to 
Jamaica, where she met with our master. And whether she 
was lawfully married unto him I will not, after her kindness 
to Grace and her faithfulness to myself as regards Eobin, so 
much as ask. 

Eobin, therefore, though the fever left him, did not mend. 
On the contrary, as I have said, he grew daily weaker; so that 
I marveled at his lasting so long, and looked to see him die, as 
so many die, in the early morning, when there is a sharpness 
or eagerness in the air, and the body is exhausted by long 
sleep. Yet he died not. 

And now you shall hear how, through the Duke of Mon- 
mouth^s ring, we escaped from our servitude. God grant, 
said the duke, that it bring thee good luck.^^ This was a 
light and unconsidered prayer, forgotten as soon as uttered, 
meant only to please the ear of a child. And yet, in a manner 
most marvelous to consider, it proved the salvation of us all. 
What better luck could that ring cause than that we should 
escape from the land of Egypt — the House of Bondage? 

I have disposed of the ring,^^ Barnaby told me, a few days 
later. That is to say, John Nuthall hath secretly pledged it 
with a merchant for twenty guineas. He said that the ring 
belongs to a convict, but many of them have brought such 
precious things with them in order to buy their freedom. He 
owns that the stones are fine, and very willingly gave the 
money on their security. 

Then nothing remains, 1 said, but to get away.^^ 

John Nuthall has bought provisions and all we want, little 
by little, so as to excite no suspicion. They are secretly and 


TOR FAITH AKD FREEDOM!. 311 

safely bestowed, and half the money still remains in his 
hands. How goes Eobin?^^ 

“ He draws daily nearer to his grave. We can not depart 
until either he mends or di^s. "'Tis another disaster, Barnaby. 

Ay; but of disaster we must not think. Kobin will die. 
Yet our own case may be as bad as if it comes to scuttling the 
ship. Cheer up, lads; many men die, but the world goes on. 
Poor Eobin! Every man for himself, and the Lord for us all. 
Sis will cry; but even if Eobin recovers he can not marry her, 
a consideration which ought to comfort her. And for him — 
since nothing else will serve him — it is best that he should die. 
Better make an end at once than go all his life with hanging 
head for the sake of a woman, as if there are not plenty women 
in the world to serve his turn. 

I know not what ails him that he doth not get better. 
The air is too hot for him; he hath lost his appetite. Barna- 
by,^^ I cried, moved to a sudden passion of pity such as would 
often seize me at that time, saw one ever ruin more com- 
plete than ours? Had we been fighting for Spain and the 
accursed Inquisition we could not have been more heavily pun- 
ished. And we were fighting on the Lord^s side."^^ 

We were. Dad was with us, too. And see how he was 
served ! The Lord, it seems, doth not provide His servants with 
arms, or with ammunition, or with commanders. Otherwise 
the duke this day would be in St. James^'s Palace wearing his 
father-'s crown, and you would be a court physician with a 
great wig and a velvet coat, instead of a Monmouth cap and a 
canvas sMrt. And I should be an admiral. But what doth 
it profit to ask why and wherefore? Let us first get clear of 
the wreck. Well; I wish we were to take Eobin with us. 
^Twill be a poor business going back to Bradford Orcas with- 
out him."^^ 

We waited, therefore, day after day, for Eobin either to get 
better or to die, and still he lingered, seemingly in a waste or 
decline; but such as I had never before seen, and I know not 
what would have happened to him, whether he would have 
lived or died, but then there happened a thing which caused 
us to wait no longer. It was this. 

The master having, according to his daily custom, gone the 
round of his estate — that is to say, having ^en his servants 
all at work under their drivers, some planting with the hoe, 
some weeding, some cutting the maize, some gathering yams, 
potatoes, cassava, or bonavist for provisions, some attending 
the ingenio, or the still-house — did unluckily take into his head 
to visit the sick-house. What was more unfortunate, this de- 


312 


FOR FAITH AKD FREEDOM. 


sire came upon him alter he had taken a morning dram^ and 
that of the stiffest; not, indeed, enough to make him drunk, 
but enough to make him obstinate and willful. When I saw 
him standing at the open door I perceived by the glassiness of 
his eyes and the unsteadiness of his shoulders that he had 
already begun the day^s debauch. He was now vin a most 
dangerous condition of mind. Later in the day, when he was 
more advanced in drink, he might be violent, but he would be 
much less dangerous, because he would afterward forget what 
he had said or done in his cups. 

So, Sir Doctor, he said, I have truly a profitable pair 
of servants! — one who pretends to cure everybody, and so es- 
capes work, and your cousin, who pretends to be sick, and so 
will do none! A mighty bargain I made, truly, when I bought 
you both!^^ 

‘^With submission, sir,^^ I said, I have within the last 
week earned for your honor ten guineas^ worth of fees. 

Well, that is as it may be. How do I know what hath 
gone into your own pocket? Where is this malingering fellow? 
Make him sit up. Sit up, I say, ye skulking dog! sit up!^^ 
Sir,'^'’ I said, still speaking with the greatest humility, 
nobody but the Lord can make this man sit up.^^ And in- 
deed Eobin did not comprehend one word that was said. 

I gave fifty pounds for him only a month ago. Am I to 
lose all that money, I ask? Fifty pounds! because I was told 
that he was a gentleman and would be ransomed by his family. 
Hark ye, doctor, you must either cure this man for me, or 
else, by the Lord! you shall have his ransom added to your 
own. If he dies I will double your price! Mark that!^^ 

I said nothing, hoping that he would depart. As for Grace, 
she had turned her back upon him at his first appearance, as 
madame had ordered her to do, so that he might not notice 
her. 

Unfortunately he did not depart, but came into the room, 
looking about him. Certainly he was not one who would 
suffer his servants to be negligent, even in the smallest things. 

Here is fine work!^^ he said. Sheets of the best — a pil- 
low. What hath a servant to do with such luxuries?^ ^ 

My cousin i|»a gentleman,^^ I told him, and accustomed 
to lie in linen. The rug which is enough for him in health 
must have a sheet to it as well, now that he is sick.""^ 

Humph! And whom have we here? Who art thou, 
madame, I wish to know?^^ 

Grace turned. 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 313 

I am your honoris servant/^ she said. I am employed 
in this sick-house when I am not in the sewing-room.'^^ 

A servant? Oh! Madame, I humbly crave your pardon. 
I took you for some fine lady. I am honored by having such 
a servant. All the rest of my women -servants go in plain 
smock and petticoat. But — here he smiled — to so lovely 
a girl as Grace Eykin — fair Grace, sweet Grace — we must give 
the bravest and daintiest. To thee, my dear, nothing can be 
denied. Those dainty cheeks, those white hands, were never 
made to adorn a common coif. Mistress Grace, we must be 
better acquainted. This is no fit plfece for you. Not the sick- 
house, but the best room in my house shall be at thy service.^'' 

Sir, I ask for nothing but to sit retired, and to render 
such service as is in my power. 

To sit retired? Why, that can not be longer suffered. 
^T would be a sin to keep hidden any longer this treasure — this 
marvel, I say, of beauty and grace. My servant! Nay; Tis 
I — Tis the whole island — who are thy servants. Thou to ren- 
der service! ^Tis for me, madame, to render service to thy 
beauty. He took off his hat and flourished it, making a leg. 

Then, sir/^ said Grace, suffer me, I pray, to go about 
my business, which is with this sick man, and not to hear 
compliments.'’^ 

He caught her hand and would have kissed it, but she drew 
it back. 

Nay, coy damsel, he said; I swear I will not go with- 
out a kiss from thy lips. Kiss me, my dear. 

She started back, and I rushed between them. At that 
moment madame herself appeared. 

What do you here?^^ she cried, catching his arm. What 
has this girl to do with you? Come away! Come away and 
leave her in peace !^^ 

Go back to the house, woman !^^ he roared, breaking from 
her and flourishing his stick, so that I thought he was actually 
going to cudgel her. Go back, or it will be the worse for 
you. What? Am I master here or you? Go back, I say. 

Then a strange thing happened. She made no reply, but 
she turned upon him eyes so full of authority that she looked 
like a queen. He shifted his feet, made as if he would speak, 
and finally obeyed, and went out of the place to his own house 
with the greatest meekness, soberness and quietness. 

Presently madame came back. 

‘‘ I blame thee not, child, she said. It is with him as I 
have told thee. When he begins to drink the devil enters into 
him. Dost think he came here to see the sick man? No, but 


314 


FOE FAITH AKD FEEEDOM. 


for thy fair eyes, inflamed with love as well as with drink. At 
such times no one can rule him but myself, and even I may 
fail. Keep snug, therefore. Perhaps he may forget thee 
again. But indeed I know not. 

She sighed and left us. 


CHAPTER XLV. 

BAKHABY THE AVENGER. 

The man did not come back. During the whole day I re- 
mained with Grace in fear. But he molested us not. 

When the sun set, and the field hands returned, I was in 
two minds whether to tell Barnaby what had happened or not. 
But when I saw his honest face, streaked with the dust of the 
day^s work, and' watched him eating his lump of salt beef and 
basin of yellow porridge with as much satisfaction as if it had 
been a banquet of all the dainties, I could not bear, without 
greater cause, to disturb his mind. 

To-night,^^ he told me, when there was no more beef and 
the porridge was all eaten, ‘‘ there is a great feast at the 
Bridge. I would we had some of their Sherries and Madeira. 
The Governor of Nevis landed yesterday, and is entertained 
to-day by our governor. All the militia are feasting, officers 
and men; nobody will be on the lookout anywhere, and it isE 
dark night, with no moon. What a chance for us, could we 
make our escape to-night! There may never again happen 
such a chance for us. How goes Robin 

And so after a little more talk we lay down in our ham- 
mocks, and I, for one, fell instantly asleep, having no fear at 
all for Grace; first, because the master would be now at the 
Bridge, feasting and too drunk for anything but to sleep;, and 
next, because she had with her the woman Deb, as stout and 
lusty as any man. 

The master was not at the Bridge with the rest of the plant- 
ers and gentlemen. Perhaps the drink which he took in the 
morning caused him to forget the great banquet. However 
that may be, he was, most unluckily for himself, drinking at 
home and alone, yet dressed in his best coat and wig and with 
his sword, all of which he had put on for the governor's 
banquet. 

After awhile the devil entered into him, finding easy ad- 
mission, so to speak, all doors thrown wide open, and even a 
welcome in that deboshed and profligate soul. About eight 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 315 

o^clock, therefore, prompted by the Evil One, the master rose 
and stealthily crept out of the house. 

It was a dark night, but he needed no light to guide his 
footsteps. He crossed the court and made straight for the 
sick-house. 

He pushed the door open and stood for a little looking 
within. By the light of the horn lanthorn he saw the girl 
whose image was in his mind. The sight might have caused 
him to return, repentant and ashamed. For she was on her 
knees, praying aloud beside the bedside of the sick man. 

As he stood in the door the woman named Deb, who lay 
upon the floor asleep, woke up and raised her- head. But he 
saw her not. Then she sat up, watching him with suspicion. 
But his eyes were flxed on the figure of Grace. Then she 
sprung to her feet, for now she knew that mischief was meant, 
and she stood in readiness, prepared with her great strong 
arms to defend her mistress. But he thought nobody was in 
the house but Grace and the sick man. He saw nothing but 
the girl at the bedside. 

I say that I was sleeping. I was awakened at the sound of 
a shriek. I knew the voice; I sprung from the hammock. 

God of mercy I cried; it ia Grace! Barnaby, awake! 
— awake, I say! It is the cry of Grace !^^ 

Then I rushed to the sick-house. 

There I saw Grace — shrieking and crying for help. And 
before, her the master struggling and wrestling with the woman 
Deb. She had her arms round his neck, and made as if she 
was trying to throttle him. Nay, I think that she would have 
throttled him, so strong she was and possessed of such a spirit, 
and by the light of the lanthorn gleaming upon the blade I 
saw that his sword had either fallen from his hand or from the 
scabbard, and now lay upon the floor. 

Stand back,^^ cried Barnaby, pushing me aside. Let go 
of him, woman. Let me deal with hini.''^ 

The thing was done in a moment. Merciful Heavens! To 
think that thus suddenly should the soul of man be called to 
its account! I had seen the poor fellows shot down and cut to 
pieces on Sedgemoor, but then they knew that they were going 
forth to fight and so might be killed. There was time before 
the battle for a prayer. But this man had no time — and he 
was more than half drunk as well. 

He lay at our feet, lifeless, Barnaby standing over him with 
a broken sword in his hand. 

For awhile no one spoke or moved. But the woman called 


316 


FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. 


Deb gasped and panted, and even laughed, as one who is well 
pleased because she hath had her revenge. 

Then madame herself, clad in a long white night-dress and 
with bare feet, suddenly pushed us aside, and fell upon her 
knees beside the wounded man. 

She lifted his head. The face was pale and the eyes closed. 
She laid it gently down and looked round. 

You have killed him,^^ she said, speaking not in a rage or 
passion, but quietly. You have killed him. To-morrow 
you will hang! you will all hangl^^ 

We said nothing. 

Doctor — she turned to me — tell me if he is dead or 
living.''^ 

She snatched the lanthorn, and held it while I made such 
examination as was possible. I opened his waistcoat and laid 
back his shirt. The sword had run straight through him and 
broken off short, perhaps by contact with his ribs. The 
broken point remained in the wound, and the flesh had closed 
around it, so that save for a drop of blood or two oozing out 
there was no flow. 

It needs not great knowledge to understand that when a 
man hath six inches of steel in his body which can not be 
pulled out, and when he is bleeding inwardly, he must die. 

Sfcill, as physicians use, I did not tell her so. 

Madame, I said, he is not dead. He is living. "While 
there is life there is hope.^^ 

‘^Oh!^^ she cried; why did he buy you when he could 
have had the common sort? You will hang — you will hang, 
every one!^'’ 

That shall we presently discover, said Barnaby. 

Humphrey, we have now no choice left — what did I tell 
thee about the chances of the night? We must go this night. 
As for this villain, let him bleed to death. 

Go!^^ said madame. “ Whither, unhappy men, will you 
go? There is no place in the island where you can hide, but 
with blood-hounds they will have you out. You can go no- 
where in this island but you will be found and hanged, unless 
you are shot like Tats in a hole.^^ 

Come, Humphrey,^^ said Barnaby, we will carry Eobin. 
This poor woman must go, too; she will else be hanged for 
trying to throttle him. Well, she can lend a hand to carry 
Eobin. Madame, by your leave we will not hang, nor will we 
be shot. In the — in the — the cave — cave that I know of, your 
blood-hounds will never find us. 

Madame, I said, it is true that we shall attempt to es- 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


317 


cape. For what hath happened I am truly soiry; yet we may 
not suffer such a thing as was this night attempted without 
resistance, else should we be worse than the ignorant blacks. 
The master will perhaps live and not die. Listen, and take 
heed therefore. 

Doctor, she said, do not leave me. Stay with me, or 
he will die. Doctor, stay with me, and I will save your life. 
I will swear that you came at my call. Stay with me — I will 
save Grace as well. I will save you both. You shall be 
neither flogged nor hanged. I swear it. I will say that I 
called you for help when it was too late. Onl^^this man and 
this woman shall hang. Who are they? A rogue and — 
Barnaby laughed aloud. 

Doctor, she said, if you stay he will perhaps recover 
and forgive you all.''^ 

Barnaby laughed again. 

Madame, I told her, better death upon the gallows 
than any further term of life with such a man. 

^‘That maybe; I know not."^^ I gave her certain direc- 
tions, bidding her, above all, watch the man, and cause him 
to lie perfectly quiet, and not to speak a word, even in a whis- 
per, and to give him a few drops of cordial from time to time. 

Come,'’'’ said Barnaby, we lose time, which is precious. 
Madame, if your husband recover — and for my part I care 
nothing whether he recover or whether he die — but if he 
should recover, tell him from me, Captain Barnaby Eykin, 
that I shall very likely return to this island, and that I shall 
then, the Lord helping, kill him in fair duello y to wipe out 
the lash of the cudgel which he was good enough once tqgilay 
about my head. If he dies of this trifling thrust with his own 
sword he must lay that to the account of my sister. Enough, 
said Barnaby; we will now make our way to the woods and 
the cave. 

This said, Barnaby went to the head of Eobin'’s bed and 
ordered Deb to take the foot, and so between them they carried 
him forth with them, while Grace followed, and I went last. 

We heard, long afterward, through one Mr. Anstiss, the 
same young gentleman who loved Grace and would have mar- 
ried her, what had happened when wn were gone. An hour 
or thereabouts afterward madame woke up one of the over- 
seers, telling him what had happened, and bidding him be 
ready at day-break, with the blood-hounds, horses and loaded 
guns, to follow in pursuit and bring us back. 

There could be^ they thought^ po diffleulty at all in catch- 


318 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


ing us^ because we were encumbered by a sick man and two 
women. 

There was^, however, more difficulty than they expected. 
For the footsteps led the blood-hounds to the sea-shore; and 
liere the trace was lost, nor could it ever be afterward re- 
covered. And though the hue and cry was out over all the 
island, and the woods and the ravines and caves where run- 
away negroes hide were searched, we were never found. 
Therefore, since no boat at all was missing (the Guinea man 
had sailed away) it was certain that we could not have escaped 
by sea. It was fortunate, indeed, that Barnaby dropped no hint 
about the sea, otherwise there would have been dispatched 
some of the boats of the port in search of us, and in that case 
the scuttling of the ship might have been necessary. For, had 
we been caught, we should certainly have been hanged for 
murder, after being flogged for attempted escape. For the 
master died. He lay speechless until the day broke. Then 
he became conscious, and presently breathed his last in great 
anguish of body and terror of mind. What hath since become 
of madame, and of that miserable family of servants and slaves 
I know not. Certain it is that they could not find a more 
barbarous or a more savage master in place of him whom 
Barnaby slew if they were to search the whole of the Spanish 
Main and the islands upon it. 


CHAPTEE XLVI. 

A PERILOUS YOYAGE. 

this way, unexpected and tragical, arrived our chance of 
escape. We walked to Carlisle Bay by way of the sea-shore, 
so that we might be met by none, and in order that the blood- 
hounds (if they should use them) in the morning might be 
thrown off the track. On the march that stout and lusty 
wench who carried one end of the bed neither called for a halt 
nor complained of the burden she carried all the way. It was 
nigh unto midnight when we arrived at the creek in which the 
boat lay sunk. This was within a stone^s throw of John Nut- 
halFs cottage, where were bestowed the mast, sails, oars and 
gear, with such provisions as he had gotten together for the 
voyage. The man was sleeping when Barnaby called him, but 
lie quickly got up, and in less than an hour we had the boat 
hauled out of the water, the provisions hastily thrown in, the 
mast stepped, our sick man and the women placed in the bows, 
the stern and middle of the boat being encumbered with our 


FOE FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


319 


provisions, we had pushed down the muddy and stinking 
creek, we had hoisted sail, and we were stealing silently out of 
Carlisle Bay under a light breeze. Three or four ships were 
lying in the hay; but either there was no watch kept aboard or 
(wl^h is more probable) it was no one^s business to hail a 
small sail-boat going out probably for fishing at dawn. Be- 
sides, the night was so dark that we may very well have es- 
caped notice. However that might be, in a quarter of an hour 
we were well out at sea, beyond the reach of the guns of Car- 
lisle Bay, no longer visible to the ships in port, and without 
any fear of b^ing seen until day-break. The wind, which some- 
times drops altogether in the night, still continued favorable, 
though very light. 

My lads,^^ said Barnaby presently, drawing a long breath, 
I verily believe that we have given them the slip this time. 
In the morning they may go forth, if they please, with their 
blood-hounds to hunt for us. Let them hunt. If any inquiry 
is made for us at the Bridge, no boat will be missing, and so 
no suspicion will be awakened. They will then, I suppose, 
search for us among the caves and ravines of which I have 
heard, where there are hiding-places in plenty, but no water 
to drink, so that the poor devils who run away and seek a 
refuge there are speedily forced to come out for water, and so 
are caught or shot down. Well, they will hunt a long time 
before they find us. This boat makes a little water, but I 
think not much. If she prove water-tight, and the breeze 
holds, by daylight we should be well to the south of the island. 
Courage, therefore! All will be well yet! How goes Kobin?^^ 
He was lying as easily as we could manage for him, one rug 
over him and another under him. Grace sat on one side of 
him, and the woman they called Deb on the other. Then, 
because the boat sometimes shipped a little water when she 
dipped in the waves, Barnaby rigged a tarpaulin round the 
bows to prevent this; and (but this was not till next day) over 
the taf^aulin he made out of a rug and a spare spar a low tilt 
which, unless the weather grew bad, should shelter those three 
by night from dew and spray, and by day from the sun over- 
head and the glare and heat of the water. 

Deb,^^ he said, softly, art afraid?^^ 

sir — not while my mistress is here.^^ (Meaning 

Grace.) 

If we are taken we shall be fiogged well-nigh unto death, 
and very likely hanged as well. 

I am not afraid, sir.^^ 


320 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


We may spring a leak/^ said Barnaby, and so go all to 
the bottom and be devoured. Art not afraid to die?^^ 

No, sir — not if I may hold my mistress by the hand, so 
that she may take me whither she goeth herself. 

Good!^^ said Barnaby. As for me, I expect I shall have 
to go alone, or with John Nuthall here. Well, there will be a 
goodly company of us. Go to sleep, my girl! In the morn- 
ing we will serve around the first ration, with, perhaps, if all 
be well, a dram of cordial. 

In the dim light of the stars I watched all night the three 
figures in the bow. Eobin lay white and motibnless; Grace 
sat, covered with her hood, bending over him; and Deb, from 
whose head her coif had fallen, lay, head on arm, sound 
asleep. She had no fear, any more than a common soldier 
has when he goes into action, because he trusts his captain. 

Thus began our voyage : in an open boat twenty feet long, 
with a company of three sound men, two women, and a sick 
man. For arms, in case we needed them, we had none at all. 
If any ship crossed our track and should call upon us to sur- 
render, we could not deny that we were escaped convicts, be- 
cause the dress of all but one proclaimed the fact. Who, in 
such a climate, would choose to wear a coarse shirt and canvas 
breeches, with a Monmouth cap, except that it was a servant 
or a slave who had no choice, but must take what is given him.^ 

But we should not surrender, come what might. If we 
could neither fight nor fly, we could sink. Said Barnaby, in 
the dead of night, whispering in my ear: “ Lad, Tis agreed 
between us, we will have that clear: sooner than be taken we 
will scuttle the ship, and so sink all together. If ^tis account- 
ed murder, the blame shall lie between us. 

A little before day-break the breeze freshened and the waves 
began to rise; but not so high as to threaten the boat, which 
proved, indeed, a most gallant little craft, dancing over the 
waters as if she enjoyed being driven by the breeze. Some 
boats, as sailors will tell you (being always apt to compare 
these craft with living creatures), come thus, f roUc and spright- 
ly, from their makers^ hands; while others, built of the same 
material and on •the same lines, are, on the contrary, and 
always remain, heavy and lumpish; just as some children are 
lively and gay, while others, born of the same parents, are 
dull and morose. 

Then the sun rose, seeming to leap out of the water, a most 
glorious bail of fire, which instantly warmed the cool air and 
began to burn and scorch our hands and faces. In these hot 
latitudes one understands what the ancients meant when they 


FOB FAITH AHD FREEDOM. 


321 


spoke of the dreadful Sun-God, who both gives and destroys 
life, and is so beneficial yet so terrible. We, who live in a cold 
country, are sometimes greatly comforted by the sun, but are 
never burned; we feel his warmth, but understand not his 
power. 

Then Barnaby began to gaze curiously all round the hori- 
zon. We had no glass of telescope; but his eyes were to him 
as good as any telescope is to most men. 

Thank the Lord!^"" he said, drawing breath (it was rare 
for Barnaby thus openly to give praise), there is no sail in 
sight. To be sure, we have the day before us. But yet — 
Here he began to talk as some men use when they desire to 
place before their own minds clearly the position of aft’airs. 
'"Very well, then — Barbadoes lying thirty miles and more 
nor^-east by north — vessels bound for the island from Bristol 
commonly sailing round the north — very well, then — we are 
out of their track. Yet — then again — some are driven south 
by stress of weather. Ay, there is our danger. Yet again, if 
one should see us, would she bear down upon us? I greatly 
doubt it. The wind will continue — that is pretty sure. If 
they were to discover that we had gone by boat, would they 
sail after us? Why/ whom could they send? And whither 
would they steer? And what boat have they that can sail 
faster than this little craft? Yet we are pretty low down in 
the water. Humphrey, lad — he turned upon me his broad 
and sunburned face, full of cheerfulness—"' we are not within 
many hours of scuttling yet. A tight boat, a fair wind, a 
smooth sea — let us hope for the best! How goes Eobin?^^ 

There was no change in Kobin, either for better or for 
worse. 

" Sis,^^ said Barnaby, "art sleeping still. Sis? Wake up, 
and let us eat and drink and be jolly! What! Grace, I say! 
Why, we have escaped! We are far away at sea! Let us 
laugh and sing. If there were room in this cockle, I would 
dance also!^^ 

She lifted her head an5. threw back her hood. Ah! what a 
mournful face was there! 

"Oh, brother !^^ she said, " canst thou laugh and sing? 
Hast thou forgotten last night?^^ 

" Why, no,^^ he replied. *" One must not forget last night, 
because it was the night of our escape. All else, I own, I can 
forget. Let it not stick in thy gizzard, my dear, that the man 
frightened thee. Eejoice rather that he thus afforded me a 
chance of giving him a taste of his own cold iron.^^ 

" Nay, brother,^^ she said, shaking her head; then she 
11 


322 


FOB FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


looked round her. We are a long way from the land/^ she 
said. When will they send out a ship to bring us back?^^ 

Why, d^ye see/^ Barnaby replied, ^^give us twelve hours 
more, and they may send out all their fleet, if they have one, 
and sail the wide world round for us, and yet not capture us. 
And now let us overhaul the provisions, and examine the ship^s 
stores. Grace pulled her hood down again, and said no 
more. The woman they called ‘^Deb'’^ was now wide 
awake, and staring about her with the greatest satisfaction. 

“ Come, John Nuthall,^^ Barnaby went on, we are hungry 
and thirsty. Where is the list I made for thee? Thou art our 
purser, our supercargo, our cook, and our steward; thou art 
also bo^s^n and carpenter, and half the crew. Where is my 
list, I say? Give it me, and we will examine our stores. Look 
up. Sis; never cry over what is done and over. What? A 
villain hath received a lesson and thou hangest thy head there- 
for? Look up, I say. There is now hope for all; thou shalt 
merrily dance at my wedding yet. 

Then he read the list, and examined each parcel or box with 
great care. 

A hundred and a half of bread, a soft cheese, plantains, a 
keg of water (nine gallons), six bottles of Canary (not one 
broken), a compass, a half-hour glass, a spare rug (Tis over 
Robin^s legs), flint and steel, a bit of tarpaulin, a hatchet and 
hammer, a saw, some nails, a spar or two, a coil of rope and 
yarn, a lump of tobacco (we can chew it, though I would 
rather put it into a pipe), candles — faugh! they are run tor 
gather in a lump; they will serve to calk something pres- 
ently."" f 

We had, in fact, no light during our voyage, but the tallow 
proved useful when — I think it was the next day — the boat 
started a leak. 

This was all our store. . "Twas not much for six people, but 
Barnaby hoped that the voyage would be short. If he should 
be disappointed, who would not put up with short rations for 
a day or two for the sake of freedom? 

And now,"" he said, when everything was stowed according 
to his mind, we will have breakfast. Our provisions are no 
great things; but, after the accursed loblollie, a bit of bread 
and cheese will be a feast."" 

A feast indeed it was, and our captain gratified us further 
by opening a flask of Canary, which raised all our hearts. 
Strange that men should be able to recover their spirits, which 
should be indepeij-dent of the creature comforts, by a dram of 


FOE FAITH AKD FEEEDOM. 323 

wine! As for Barnaby, I thought he would have kissed the 
bottle. 

‘^It is now three months and more/ ^ he said, ‘^that we 
have had nothing save a sup of kill-devil fresh from the still, 
and now we are mercifully permitted to taste again a. glass of 
Canary. ^Tis too much!^^ he sighed, drinking his ration. 

Well, we have but a few bottles, and the voyage may be 
longer than we hope; therefore we must go upon short allow- 
ance. But fear not. Sis: there shall always be enough for 
Eobin, poor lad.^^ 

He then proceeded to tell us what he intended, and whither 
he would steer. 

We have no chart, he said. What then.^ I can draw 
one as good as they are made to steer by in these seas.^^ He 
could not draw one, because he had no paper or pencil; 'but he 
carved one with the point of his knife on the seat, and marked 
out our course upon it day by day. See,^"" he said: here is 
Barbadoes. Our course all night hath been sou^-west. She 
now makes five knots an hour. It is now eight, I take it; and 
we must therefore be about forty miles from Barbadoes. To- 
morrow morning we should make the Grenadilloes, which are 
a hundred and &ty miles from Carlisle Bay. Hark ye! There 
may be a Bristol vessel sailing from Great Grenada to Barba- 
does, or the other way. That would be the devil. But such 
ships are rare, and there is no trade between the two islands. 
Well, we shall give Grenada as wide a berth as may be.'’ ^ Here 
he considered a little. Therefore ^twill be our wiser plan to 
bear more to the south. Once south of Grenada, I take it, 
there will be no more danger. Off the main of South America, 
the sea is covered with islands. They are No-Man’s Land: 
inhabitants have they none: navigators, for the most part, 
know them not: English, French, and Spanish ships come 
never to these islands. My purpose, therefore, is to put in at 
Great Margaritos or Tortuga for rest and fresh water, and so 
presently make the Dutch island of Cura9oa.^^ 

And after that?^^ 

Then, my lad, we shall take ship to some country where 
a sailor may get a berth and a physician may find patients. It 
must be to Holland first; but never fear; we shall get back to 
Eugland some time; and perhaps fight another battle, with a 
different tale to tell afterward.'’^ 

As the day advanced, the coast of Barbadoes continually re- 
ceded, until, before sunset, the island lay like a purple cloud 
low down in the horizon. The north-east breeze blew steadily, 

but the sun caused a most dreadful heat in the air; and our 

■ ^ 


324 : 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


eyes smarted from the glare of the water and the spray that 
was blown upon us. It was at this time that Barnaby con- 
structed the tilt of which I have spoken. The sea lay spread 
out round us in a broad circle, of which we were the center, 

' and the cloudless blue sky lay over us like unto a roof laid 
there for us alone. It is only in a ship one doth feel thus 
alone, in the center of creation; even as if there were nothing 
but the sea around, the sky above, and our boat in the center. 
Thus must the Patriarch Noah have felt when his ark floated 
upon the vast face of the water, and even the tops of the high 
hills were hidden and covered over. All day Barnaby scanned 
the horizon anxiously; but there came into sight no sail or shijD 
whatever. To us, who sometimes see the vessels lying in a 
crowded port, and hear how they bring argosies from every 
land, it seems as if every part of the ocean must be covered 
with sails driving before the i\^ind, from whatever quarter it 
may blow. But he who considers the Mappa Mundi will 
presently discover that there are vast expanses of sea where 
never a sail is seen, unless it be the fugitive sail of the pirate 
or the bark canoe of the native. We were now nearing such 
a lonely sea or part of the ocean. Barnaby knew, what these 
planters did not, how to steer across the unknown water to a 
port of safety beyond. 

At midday our captain served out another drink of water, 
and to Eobin I gave a sop of bread in Canary, which he seemed 
to suck up and to swallow with readiness. 

In such a voyage, where there is nothing to do but to keep 
the ship on her course and to watch the horizon for a strange 
sail, one speedily falls into silence, and sits, many hours with- 
out speech, sometimes falling asleep, lulled by the ripple of 
the water as the boat flies through it. 

I have said nothing about the man John Nuthall. Jle was 
a plain, honest-looking man, and we found him throughout all 
this business faithful, brave, and patient^, obedient to Barnaby, 
and of an even temper, and contented with his share. That 
he had formerly been a thief in his native country can not be 
denied, but I hope that we shall not deny to any man the right 
of repentance. 

Barnaby divided the crew — namely, himself, John Nuthall, 
and me~into three watches of eight hours each, of which each 
man kept two at a stretch. ThuSj^ beginning the day at noon, 
which was the only time we knew for certain, Barnaby would 
himself (but this was after the first two days) lie down and 
sleep till sunset, or a little later. Then John Nuthall lay 
down and took bis turn of sleep till Barnaby thought it was 


FOE FAITH AND FEEEDOM. 


325 


two o^clock in the morning, when he woke him and I took his 
place. But for the first day or two Barnaby slept not at all, 
and the whole of the vojage he slept as a good watch-dog 
sleeps, namely, with one eye open. 

At sunset he gave out another pannikin of cold water to 
each of us, a ration of bread and cheese, and a dram of wine. 
Then he commanded John Nuthall to lie down and sleep, 
while I took the tiller and he himself held the rcpes. Then 
the night fell once more upon us. 

Presently, while we sat there in silence, Grace rose from her 
seat, and came aft and sat down beside me. 

Humphrey,''^ she whispered, think you that he is truly 
dead?^^ She was speaking, not of Kobin, but of the master. 

I know not, my dear.""^ 

I can think of nothing but of that man^s sudden end, and 
of what may happen to us. Say something to comfort me, 
Humphrey! You always had some good word to say, like 
manna for refreshment. My soul is low in the dust; I can not 
even pray.^^ 

Why, my dear?’^ What could I say? ^Tis true that 
the man was struck down, and that suddenly. And yet — 

To think that my brother — that Barnaby — should have 
killed him!^^ 

Why,^"' said Barnaby, if some one had to kill him, why 
not I as well as another? What odds who killed him?^"" 

Oh!^^ she said, that a man should be called away at such 
a moment, when his brain was reeling with wine and wicked 
thoughts!’^ 

He was not dead,^^ I told her (though I knew very well 
what would be the end), when we came away. Many a man 
recovers who hath had a sword-thrust through the body. He 
may now be on the mend — who can tell?^^ Yet I knew, I say, 
very well, how it must have ended. Consider, my dear: he 
temj)ted the wrath o£ God, if any man ever did. If he is de- 
stroyed, on his own head be it — not on ours. If he recover, 
he will have had a lesson which will serve him for the rest of 
his life. If he doth not recover, he may have time left him 
for something of repentance and of prayer. Why, Grace, if 
we get safely to our port we ought to consider the punishment 
of this sinner (which was in self-defense, as one may truly say) 
the very means granted by Providence for our own escape. 
How else should we have got away? How else should we have 
resolved to venture all, even to carrying Eobin with us?^^ All 
this, I repeat, I said to encourage her, because, if I know 
aught of wounds, a man bleeding inwardly of a sword-thrust 


V 


326 


FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. 


through his vitals would have short time for the collecting of 
his thoughts or the repentance of his sins, being as truly cut off 
in the midst of them as if he had been struck down by a thun- 
der-bolt. A man may groan and writhe under the dreadful 
torture of such a wound, but there is little room for meditation 
or for repentance. 

Then I asked her if she was in fear as to the event of the 
voyage. 

*^‘1 fear nothing, she told me, ‘^but to be captured and 
taken back to the place whence we came, there to be put in 
prison and flogged. That is my only fear. Humphrey, we 
have suffered so much that this last shame would be too great 
for me to bear. Oh! to be tied up before all the men, and 
flogged like the black women — ^twould kill me, Humphrey!^'' 
Grace,^^ 1 said, very earnestly, are thou, indeed, brave 
enough to endure death itself rather than this last barbarity 

^^Oh! Death! — death!^^ she cried, clasping her hands. 

What is death to me, who have lost everything 
Nay, but consider, my dear. To die at sea — it means to 
sink down under the cold water out of the light of day; to be 
choked for want of air; perhaps to be devoured quick by 
sharks; to lie at the bottom of the water, the sea- weed grow- 
ing over your bones; to be rolled about by the troubled 
waves — 

Humphrey, these are old wives^ tales. Why, if it had 
been lawful, I would have killed myself long ago. But I must 
not lose Heaven as well as earth. A brief pang it is to die, 
and then to be happy forever. What do I care whether the 
sea- weed covers my bones or the cold clay? Oh, Humphrey! 
Humphrey! why should 1 care any longer to live?^'’ 

My dear,^^ I said, if we escape in safety there may yet 
be happiness in store. No man knoweth the future. She 
shook her head. Happiness, I told her, “ doth not com- 
monly come^ to man in the way which he most desires and 
prays. For 'if he doth obtain the thing for which he hath so 
ardently prayed, he presently flnds that the thing bringeth 
not the joy he so much expected. Or it comes too late, as is 
the case often with honors and wealth, when one foot is already 
in the grave. 1 mean, my dear, that we must not despair be- 
cause the thing which most we desired is taken from us. Per- 
haps we ought not to desire anything at all except what the 
Lord shall provide. But that is a hard saying, and if men 
desired nothing, it is certain that they would no longer work."^^ 
I talked thus at length to divert her mind from her troubles. 

To thee, poor child, I said, ^‘have been given afflictions 


FOR FAITH AKD FREEDOM. 


327 


many and great — the loss of godly parents, a husband whom 
thou must avoid, and the deprivation of earthly love. Yet 
since thou art so brave, Grace, I will tell thee — I thought not 
to tell thee anything of this — 

What, Humphrey? What?^^ 

Briefly, Grace, thou shalt not be taken alive. 

How? unless you kill me?^^ 

‘‘We are agreed, my dear — Barnaby and 1 — that if we can 
not escape any boats which may pursue us, -the boat shall be 
sunk, and so we shall all drown together. Indeed, Grace, I 
confess that I am not myself so much in love with life as to 
return to that captivity and intolerable oppression from which 
we have gotten away. Therefore, be assured, we will all 
drown rather than go back.^^ 

“ Oh!^^ she sighed, but with relief, “ now shall I fear noth- 
ing. 1 have not lost everything, since I have thee still — and 
Barnaby. Alas! my head has been so full of what madame 
said — that we should be certainly caught, and all of us flogged. 
To be flogged ! Who would not rather die?^^ She shivered 
the trembled. “ To be flogged! — Humphrey, I could not bear 
the shame !^^ She trembled and shivered at the very thought. 

“ Pear not, my dear,^^ J said; “ there are those in the boat 
who love thee too well to suffer that extreme of barbarity. 
Put that fear out of thy mind. Think only that we may have 
to die, but that we shall not be taken. To die, indeed, is very 
likely our fate; for we have but a quarter of an inch of frail 
wood between us and the seas. If a storm should arise, we fill 
with water and go down; if the wind should drop, we should 
be becalmed, and so perish miserably of hunger and thirst; if 
Barnaby steer not aright — 

“Humphrey,^^ said Barnaby, “fill not her innocent head 
with rubbish. ^Tis not the time of tornadoes, and there will 
be no storm. The wind at this season never drops, therefore 
we shall not lie becalmed. And as for my steering aright, 
why, with a compass, am I a lubber?^^ 

“ Brother,^^ she said, “if I am not to be flogged, the rest 
concerns me little. Let us say no more about it. I am now 
easy in my mind. Eobin sleeps, Humphrey: he hath slept 
since the sun went down, and this afternoon he looked as if he 
knew me. Also he took the bread sopped in Canary eagerly, 
as if he relished it. 

“ These seas,^^ said Barnaby, “ are full of sharks.^^ 

I knew not what he meant, because we were speaking cf 
Eobin. 


328 


FOB FAITH AKD FREEDOM. 


Sharks have got their senses, as well as humans/^ he 
went on. 

Still I understood him not. 

‘VWhen a man on board a ship is going to die the sharks 
find it out, and they follow that ship until he dies and is flung 
overboard. Then they devour his body and go away, unless 
there is more to follow. I have looked for sharks, and there 
are none following the boat; wherefore, though I am not a 
doctor, I am sure that Eobin will not die.^^ 

I know not at all,^^ I said, how that may be. There 
are many things believed by sailors which are superstitions — 
fond beliefs nourished by the continual presence of perils. On 
the other hand, the senses of man are notoriously as far below 
those of creatures as their intellects are above them (yet a skill- 
ful man may read the premonition of death in a sick man^s 
face). Therefore I know not but a shark may have a sense 
like unto the eye of a hawk or the scent of a hound, with which 
to sniff the approach of death afar off. Let us comfort our- 
selves, Grace, with Barnaby’s assurance. 

^Tis a well-proved and tried thing, said Barnaby; and 
sailors, let me tell thee. Master Doctor, have no superstitions 
or idle beliefs.-’^ 

Well, that may be. As to Eobin ^s disease, I can pro- 
nounce nothing upon it. Nay, had 1 the whole library of 
Padua to consult, I could learn nothing that would help me. 
First, the mind falls into a languishing and spiritless condition. 
That causeth the body to lie open to attacks of any disease 
which may be threatening. Then the body, being ill at ease, 
works upon the mind, and causes it to wander beyond control. 
So that the soul, which is bound up with body and mind, can 
not show herself or manifest her will. It is the will which 
shows the presence of |the soul: the will which governs body 
and mind alike. But if I know aught of disease, if a change 
comes upon Eobin it will either swiftly cure or swiftly kill.^^ 
Humphrey, she whispered, ‘^if he recover, how shall I 
meet his face? How shall I reply when he asks me concerning 
my faith?^^ 

‘ ^ My dear, he knows all. "'Twas that knowledge, the pity 
of it, and the madness of it — believe me — ^which threw him 
into so low a condition. 

I have looked daily for reproaches in thy kind eyes, Hum- 
phrey. I have found none, truly. But from Eobin — oh! I 
dare not think of meeting those eyes of his.'^^ 

Eeproach thee will he never, Grace. Sorrow and love, 1 
doubt not, will lie in his eyes all his life. What thou hast 


FOB FAITH AKD FKEEDOM. 


329 


done was for him, and for thy father and thy brother and for 
all of us. But, oh! the pity — and the villainy! Fear not to 
meet the poor lad^s eyes, Grace. 

I long to see the light of reason in those dear eyes — and 
yet I fear. Humphrey, I am married, but against my will. 1 
am a wife, and yet no wife. I am resolved that, come what 
may, I will never, never go to my husband. And I love my 
Eobin still — oh !^^ she sobbed, 1 love my Eobin still!^^ 

“ If we die,/^ 1 told her, you shall go down with your arm 
round his neck, and so you shall die together. 

Then we sat silent awhile. 

My dear,""^ I said, lie down and take some sleep. 

I can not sleep, Humj^rey, for the peace of mind which 
hath fallen upon me. If Eobin now come to his senses again 
I shall not fear him. And the night, it is so peaceful — so cool 
and so peaceful — the wind had dropped till there was barely 
enough to fill the sail, and only enough way on the boat to 
make a soft murmur of the water 'along her sides. The sea 
is so smooth; the sky is so bright and so full of stars. Can 
there 'be anywhere a peace like this? Alas! if we could sail 
still upon a silent and peaceful ocean! But we must land 
somewhere. There will be men, and where there are men 
there is wickedness, with drink and wrath and evil passions — 
such as we have left behind us. Humphrey — oh, my brother 
Humphrey! — it would be sweet if the boat would sink beneath 
us now, and so, with Eobin’s hand in mine, we could all go 
together to the happy land where there is neither marrying 
nor giving in marriage. 

From b^eneath the tilt there came a voice. 1 verily believe 
it was answer sent straight from Heaven to comfc:t this poor 
faithful soul. Grace — it was the voice of Eobin, in his 
right mind at last — Grace,^^ he said, we will continue to 
love each other, yet without sin. 

Oh, Eobin! Eobin !^'^ She moved quickly to his side and 
fell upon her knees. Eobin, thou wilt recover !^^ 

^^Stay!^^ I interposed. Eobin will first , have a cup of 
cordial. 

I have been sleeping,^^ he said: I know not what hath 
happened. We are in a boat, it seems, and on the open sea! 
Unless I am still dreaming, we are slaves to a planter in Bar- 
badoes. And this is Grace — who was in England! and I know 
not what it means. 

You have been ill, Eobin, I told him. You have been 
nigh unto death. Many things have happened, of which we 
will speak, but not now. Grace is at your side, and Barnaby 


330 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


is navigating the boat. Drink this cup of wine — so. Sleep 
now, and in the morning, if it please Heaven, you shall be so 
strong that you shall hear everything. Ask no more ques- 
tions, but sleep. Give him your hand, Grace. 

She obeyed me, sitting at his side and taking his hand in 
hers, and so continued for the rest of the night, Eobin sleep- 
ing peacefully. 

In a word, he was restored. The fresh sea-breeze brought 
him back to life and reason; and though he was still weak, he 
was now as sound in his mind as any man could desire to be. 
And in the morning we told him all that had been done, 
whereat he marveled. 

Grace might love him still. That was most true, yet be- 
tween them stood the man. Why, there was another man in 
the boat who also loved a girl he could never wed. His pas- 
sion, I swear, was full of constancy, tenderness, and patience. 
Would Eobin be as patient? 

When the day broke again we were still sailing over a lovely 
sea, with never a sail in sight, and never a sign of land. 

But now Eobin was sitting up, his face pale and his hands 
thin. But the light of reason was in his eyes, and on his lips 
such a smile of tenderness as we were wont to see there in the 
days of old. 

"‘Said 1 not, cried Barnaby, “that he would recover? 
Trust the sharks for common sense. And again an open sea, 
with never a sail in sight. Praise the Lord, therefore!'’^ 

But Grace, when the sun rose above the waves, threw back 
her hood, and burst forth into singing: 

“ Oh, Lord, how glorious is Thy grace, 

And wondrous large Thy love. 

At such a dreadful time and place. 

To such as faithful prove!” 

The tears came into my eyes only to see the change that 
had fallen upon her gracious, smiling countenance. It was 
not, truly, the sweet and happy face that we remembered be- 
fore her troubles fell upon her, buL that face graver with the 
knowledge of evil and of pain. And now it was like unto such 
a face as one may see in many an altar-piece in Italy, glorified 
with gratitude and love. 

Then the woman called “ Deb fell to weeping and blub- 
bering for very joy that her mistress looked happy again. 
'’Twas a faithful, loving creature. 

“ Humphrey, said Grace, “ forgive me that I murmured. 
Things that are done can not be undone. Eobin is restojed to 


. FOE FAITH AKD FEEEDOM. 


331 


US. With three such brothers, who should not be content to 
live? I hope now that we shall get safely to our port; but if 
we die, we shall die contented, in each other^s arms. Going 
through the Vale of Misery, she added, softly, “ we will use 
it as a well.^^ 


CHAPTER XLVIl. 

I TAKE it,^^ said Barnaby, on the third morning — the 
weather continuing fine and the sea clear of ships — that we 
are now clear out of the track of any British vessels. We may 
fall into the hands of the Spaniard; but he is mild and merci- 
ful of late compared with his temper a hundred years ago. 
'’Tis true we have given him many lessons in humanity. We 
sh(^uld now before nightfall make the islands of Testigos; but 
I think they are only rocks and sandy fiats, such as they call 
keys, where we need not land, seeing that we should get noth- 
ing % so doing, except to get out of the way, and so make the 
rations shorter. Robin — ""twas at breakfast, when he served 
out a dram of wine to every one — I drink to thy better 
health, lad. Thou hast cheated the devil. Nay, Sis, look not 
so angry! — I meant, thou wilt not go to heaven this bout. Up 
heart, then, and get strong! We will find thee another sweet- 
heart, who shall make thee lift up thy head again. What? Is 
there but one woman in the world? I was saying, then,'’'^ he 
went on, that we shall presently make the islands of Tes- 
tigos. There followeth thereafter, to one who steereth west, a 
swarm of little islands. ^Twas here that the pirates used to lie 
in the good old days, snug and retired, with their girls and 
their drink. Ay, and plenty of both! A happy time they 
had!^'’ Barnaby wagged his head and sighed. South of this 
archipelago (which I will some day visit, in order to search for 
treasure) there lieth the 'great and mountainous island of Mar- 
garita. This great island we shall do well to keep upon our 
south, and so bear away to the desert island of Tortuga, where 
we shall find water for certain — and that, I have* been told, the 
best spring- water that fiows; turtles we may also find, and fish 
we may catch; and when we have recovered our strength, 
with a few days'' rest ashore, we will once more put to sea and 
make for the island of Cura9oa and the protection of the 
Dutchmen. 

It needs not to tell much more about the voyage, in which 
we were favored by Heaven with everything that we could de- 
sire — a steady breeze from the best quarter, a sea never too 


332 


FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. 


rough, provisions in sufficiency, the absence of any ships, and, 
above all, the recovery of Eobin. 

1 say, then, that we sighted (and presently passed) the group 
of islets called the Testigos; that we coasted along the great 
island of Margarita, where we landed not, because Barnaby 
feared that certain smoke which we saw might betoken the 
presence of the Spaniard, whom, in spite of his new character 
for mildness, he was anxious to avoid. ^Tis strange thus to 
sail along the shore of a great island whereon are no inhab- 
itants, or, if any, a few sailors put in for water, for turtle, and 
for cocoa-nuts — to see afar off the forests climbing round the 
mountain-sides, the water-falls leaping over the precipices — 
and to think of the happy life one might lead in such a place, 
far from men and their ways. I confess (since my mistress 
will never see this page) that my thoughts for a whole day, 
while we sailed along the shores of Margarita, turned upon 
those pirates of whom Barnaby spoke. They lived here at 
ease, and in great happiness. ^Tis of such a life that a man 
sometimes dreams. But if he were suffered so to lie in sloth, 
farewell Heaven! Farewell future hopes! Farewell our old 
talk of lifting the soul above the flesh! Let us, henceforth live 
the lives of those who are content (since they can have no 
more) with a few years of love and wine and revelry! It is in 
climates like that of the West Indies that such a temptation 
seizes on men the most strongly, for here everything is made 
for man^s enjoyment: here is no cold, no frost, no snow or ice; 
here eternal summer reigns, and the world seems made for the 
senses and for nothing else. Of these confessions enough. 
'’Twas impossible that in such a luxurious dream the image of 
Grace could have any part. 

We landed, therefore, on the desert island of Tortuga, where 
we remained for several days, hauling up our boat and cover- 
ing her with branches to keep off the sun. Here we lived lux- 
uriously upon turtle, fresh fish, the remains of our bread, and 
what was left of our Canary; setting up huts in which we could 
sleep, and finding water of the freshest and brightest I ever 
saw. Here Eobin mended apace, and began to walk about 
with no more help from his nurses. 

We were minded, as 1 have said, topsail as .far as the island 
of OuraQoa, but an accident prevented this. 

One day, when we had been ashore for ten days or there- 
abouts, we were terrified by the sight of a small vessel rigged 
in the fashion of a ketch — that is, with a small mizzen — bleat- 
ing about outside the bay, which is the only port of Tortuga. 

- will put m here/' said Barnaby, That is most cer- 


FOR FAITH AHI) FREEDOM. 


388 


tain. Now, from the cut of her, she is of New England build, 
and from the handling of her she is under-manned; and I 
think that we have nothing to fear from her, unless she is 
bound for Barbadoes, or for Grenada, or Jamaica/^ 

Presently the vessel came to anchor, and a small boat was 
lowered, into which three men descended. They were un- 
armed. 

She is certainly from New England, said Barnaby. 
Well, they are not from Barbadoes in quest of us, otherwise 
they would not send ashore three unarmed men to capture four 
desperate men. That is certain. And as we can not hide our 
boat, though we might hide ourselves, I will e^en go forth and 
parley with these strangers. 

This he did, we watching from a safe place. The conversa- 
tion was long and earnest, and apparently friendly. Presently 
Barnaby returned to us. 

There offers,'^ ^ he said, a chance which is perhaps better 
than to make for Cura9oa, where, after all, we might get 
scurvy treatment. These men, in a word, are privateers; or, 
since we are at war with none, they are pirates. They fitted 
out a brigantine, or bilander (I know not which), and designed 
to sail round Cape Horn to attack the Spaniard on the South 
Seas. On the way they took a prize, which you how see in the 
bay. Ten men were sent aboard to navigate her as a tender 
to their ship. But they fell into bad weather off Brazil, and 
their ship went down with all hands. Now they are bound for 
Providence, only seven hands left, and they will take us aboard 
and carry us to that island for our services. Truly, I think we 
should go. They have provisions in plenty, with Madeira 
wine; and Providence is too far for the arm of King James to 
reach. What say ye all? Grace, what sayest thou?^^ 

Truly, brother, I say nothing.'’^ 

Then we will agree, and go with them.-’^ 

We went on board, taking with us a good supply of turtle, 
clear water, and cocoa-nuts (being all that the isle afforded). 
Honest fellows we found our pirates to be. They belonged to 
the island of Providence, in the Bahamas, which hath long 
been the rendezvous of English privateers. Ten years before ^ 
this the Spaniards plucked up courage to attack and destroy 
the settlement, when those who escaped destruction found shel- 
ter in some of the adjacent islands, or on the mainland of Vir- 
ginia. Now some of them have come back again, and this set- 
tlement, or colony, is re-established. 

Thither, therefore, we sailed. It seemed as if we were be- 


334 


FOK FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


come a mere shuttlecock of fortune, beaten and driven hither 
and thither upon the face of the earth. 


CHAPTER XLVIIL 

THE ISLAND OF PROVIDENCE. 

It was some time in the month of March, A. d. 1686, that 
we landed in Providence. The settlement — ^from which the 
Spaniards had now nothing to fear — then consisted (it is now, 
I learn, much larger) of no more than one hundred and fifty 
people in all, the men being all sailors, and ready to carry on 
again the old trade of privateer or pirate, as you please to call 
it, when they should be strong enough to buy or hire a ship 
and to equip her. 

We stayed on the island for two years and a quarter, or 
thereabouts. It is one of an archipelago, for the most part, I 
believe, desert. The settlement was, as I have said, but a 
small one, living in scattered houses; there were plenty of these 
to spare (which had belonged to the former settlement), if one 
only took the trouble to clear away the creeping plants and cut 
down the trees which had grown up round them since the 
Spaniards came and destroyed the colony. Such a house, built 
of wood, with a shingle roof, we found convenient for us; and^ 
after we had cleared the ground round it and repaired it, we 
lived in it. Some of the people helped us to a porker or two 
and some chickens. They also gave us some salt beef and 
maize to start with. That we had little money (only what 
was left over from the sale of Grace^s ring) made no difference 
to us here, because no one had any at all, and at this time 
there was neither buying nor selling on the island — a happy 
condition of things which will not, I take it, last long. So 
great is the fertility of the ground here, and such is the abun- 
dance which prevails, that we very shortly found ourselves pro- 
vided with all that we wanted to make life pleasant. Work 
there was for us, but easy and pleasant work; such as weeding 
our patches of vegetables and fruit in the early mornings; or 
going to fish; or planting maize; or attending to our pigs, 
poultry, and turkeys; and, for the rest of the time, sitting in 
the shade conversing. It is none too hot in this place, though 
one would not in the summer walk abroad at noon; nor is it 
ever too cold. All the fruits which flourish under the tropics 
grow here, with those also which belong to the temperate 
zone. Here are splendid forests where you can cut the ma- 
hogany-tree and build your house if you please of that lovely 


FOR FAITH AKD FREEDOM. 


335 


wood. Here we ourselves grew, for our own use, maize, to- 
bacco, colfee, cocoa, plantains, pines, potatoes, and many other 
• fruits and vegetables. 

Barnaby soon grew tired of this quiet life, and went on 
board a vessel bound for New England, promising that we 
should hear from him. After two years we did receive a let- 
ter from him, as you shall immediately learn. When he was 
gone we carried on a quiet and peaceful life. Books, paper, 
and pens there were nnne upon this island. Nor were there 
any clothes, so that the raggedness of our attire (we were 
dressed in the sailors^ clothes our friends the privateers gave 
us) became incredible. I made some kind of guitar on which 
we played, and in the evening we would have very good play- 
ing and singing together of such pieces and songs as we could 
remember. I made verses, too, for amusement, and Grace 
learned them. We found our brother- settlers a rough but 
honest folk, to whom we taught many arts; how to procure 
sea-salt; how to make wine from pine-apples; how to cure the 
tobacco leaf — things which greatly added to their comfort; 
and, seeing that there was no church on the island, we every 
Sabbath held a meeting for prayer and exhortation. 

Seeing, then, that we had all that man could desire — with 
perfect freedom from anxiety, our liberty, a delightful climate, 
plenty to eat and drink — ay, and of the very best — and that at 
home there was nothing for us but prison again, and to be 
sent back to the place whence we had escaped, we ought, every 
one will acknowledge, to have felt the greatest contentment 
and gratitude for this sure and quiet refuge. We did not. 
The only contented members of our household were John Nut- 
hall and the woman Deb, who cheerfully cultivated the garden 
and fed the poultry and the pigs (for we had now everything 
around us that is wanting to make life pleasant). Yet we 
were not contented. I could read the signs of impatience in 
the face whose changes I had studied for so long. Other women 
would have shown their discontent in ill-temper and a shrew- 
ish tongue; Grace showed hers in silence, sitting apart, and 
communing with herself. I dare say I also showed my own 
discontent; for I confess that I now began to long vehemently 
for books. Consider, it was more than two 3^ears since I had 
seen a book! There were no books at all on the island of 
Providence — not one book, except a Bible or two, and, per- 
haps, a Book of Common Prayer. I louged, therefore, for 
the smell of leather bindings, the sight of books on shelves, 
and the holy company of vthe wise and the ingenious. No one, 
again, could look upon Robin without perceiving that he was 


336 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


afflicted with a constant yearning for that which he could not 
have. What that was I understood very well, although he 
never opened his mind unto me. 

Now, I confess that at this time I was grievously tormented 
with the thought that, Grace^s marriage having been no true 
marriage — because, first, she was betrayed and deceived, and 
next, she had left her husband at the very church porch — there 
was no reason in the world why she should not disregard that 
ceremony altogether, and contract a marriage after her own 
heart. 1 turned this over in my mind a long while; and, in- 
deed, I am still of the opinion that there would have been 
nothing sinful in such an act. But the law of the country 
would not so regard it. That is quite true. If, therefore, I 
had advised these unhappy lovers in such a sense, they would 
have been compelled to live for the rest of their lives on this 
island, and their offspring would have been illegitimate. So 
that, though the letter of the law caused a most cruel injustice 
— summum jus^ sum mum nefas — it was better that it should 
be obeyed. In the end, it was a most happy circumstance that 
it was so obeyed. 

I have presently to relate the means by which this injustice 
was removed. As for my own share in it, I shall neither exag- 
gerate nor shall I extenuate. I shall not defend it. I will 
simply set it down, and leave judgment to a higher Court than 
the opinion of those who read these pages. I must, however, 
acknowledge that, partly in Barbadoes and partly in Provi- 
dence, I learned from the negresses, who possess many secrets, 
and have a wonderful knowledge of plants and their powers, 
the simple remedies with which they treat fevers, agues, rheu- 
matisms, and other common disorders. I say simple, because 
they will, with a single cup of liquor boiled with certain leaves, 
or with a pinch of some potent powder gotten from a plant, 
effect a speedier cure than our longest prescriptions, even 
though they contain more than fifty different ingredients. 
Had I possessed this knowledge, for example, while we lay 
in Exeter Jail, not one prisoner (except the old and feeble) 
should have died of the fever. This said, you will under- 
stand presently what it was I did. 

It was, then, about the month of March, m the year 1688, 
that a ship, laden with wine, and bound from New York to 
Jamaica, put in at the port of Providence. Her captain car- 
ried a letter for me, and this was the first news of the world 
that came to us since our flight. 

The letter was from Barnaby. ' It was short, because Bar- 


FOR FAITH AKB FREEDOM. 


337 


^ naby had never practiced the art of letter- writing; but it was 
pertinent. First, he told us that he had made the' acquaint- 
ance at Boston (I mcRu the4ittlja.tawn..Boata 
of his cousins, whom he found to be substantial merchants (so 
that here, at least, the man George Penne lied not), and zeal- 
ous upholders of the Independent way of thinking; that these 
cousins had given him a hearty welcome for the sake of his 
father; that he had learned from them, first, that the Mon- 
mouth business was long since concluded, and, so great was 
the public indignation against the cruelties of the Bloody As- 
size, that no one would again be molested on that account, not 
even those who had been sent abroad should they venture to 
return. He also said — but this we understood not — that it 
was thought things would before long improve. 

^‘And now,^"" he concluded, ‘‘my cousins, finding that I 
am well skilled and have already navigated a ship with credit, 
have made me captain of their own vessel, the ‘ Pilgrim,^ which 
sails every year to Bristol and back again. She will be dis- 
patched in the month of August or September. Come, there- 
fore, by the first ship which will set you ashore either at New 
York or at Boston, and I will give you all a passage home. 
Afterward, if you find not a welcome there, you may come 
back with me. Here a physician may find practice, Kobin 
may find a farm, and sister will be safe from B. B.^"" 

At this proposal we pricked up our ears, as you may very 
well believe. Finally, we resolved to agree to it, promising 
each other to protect Grace from her husband and to go back 
to Boston with Barnaby if we found no reason to stay in Eng- 
land. But the woman Deb, though she wept at leaving her 
mistress, would not go back to the place where her past wicked- 
ness might be remembered, and John Nuthall was also un- 
willing, for the same reason, to return; and as this honest couple 
had now a kindness for each other, I advised them to marry 
and remain where they were. There was on the island no 
minister of religion, nor any magistrate or form of government 
whatever (yet all were honest), therefore I ventured to hear 
their vows of fidelity, and prayed with them while I joined 
their hands — a form of marriage, to my mind, as binding and 
as sacred as any wanting the assistance of a priest. So we 
handed over to them all our property (which was already as 
much theirs as ours), and left them in that sunny and delight- 
ful place. If the man was a repentant thief, the woman was 
a repentant Magdalen, and so they were well matched. I hope 
and believe' that, being well resolved for the future, they will 
lead a godly and virtuous life, and will be blessed with chil- 


338 


FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. 


dren who will never learn the reason why their parents left 
their native country. 

There is little trade at Providence, but many vessels touch 
at the port, because it lies between the English possessions in 
America and those in the West Indies. They put in for water, 
for fruit, and sometimes, if they are short-handed, for men, 
most of them in the place being sailors. Therefore we had 
not to wait long before a vessel put in bound from Jamaica 
to New York. We bargained with the captain for a passage, 
agreeing that he should find us provisions and wine, and that 
we would pay him (by means of Barnaby) on our reaching 
Boston (which is but a short distance from New York). 
Strange to say, though we had been discontented with our lot, 
when we sailed away Grace fell to weeping. We had mur- 
mured, and our murmuring was heard. We shall now live 
out what is left to us in England, and we shall die and be 
buried among our own folk. Yet there are times when I re- 
member the sweet and tranquil life we led in the island of 
Providence, its soft and sunny air, the cool sea-breeze, the 
shade of its orange-groves, and the fruits which grew in such 
abundance to our hands. 


CHAPTER XLIX. 

HOME. 

In one thing alone the villain Penne spoke the truth. The 
Eykin family of Boston (I say again of New England) was one 
of the most considerable in the place — ^great sticklers for free- 
dom and for religion (but, indeed, it is a most God-fearing 
town, and severe toward transgressors). They received us 
with so much kindness that nothing could surpass it; we were 
treated as Christian martyrs at the least, and toward Grace, of 
whose cruel lot they had heard from Barnaby, they showed 
(but that no one could help) an affection quite uncommon. 
They generously furnished us all with apparel becoming our 
station, and with money for our daily occasions; they approved 
of our going with Barnaby; but, in the event of our finding 
no welcome or means of a livelihood at home, and if Grace 
should be molested by her husband, they engaged us to re- 
turn to New England. Here, they said, Robin might become 
a farmer, if he had no inclination for trade; they would joy-, 
fully receive Grace to live with them; and I myself would cer- 
tainly find practice as a physician ; while Barnaby should con- 
tinue to command their ship. When I considered the many 


von FAITH AKD FREEDOM. 


339 


conveniences which exist in Boston (it is already, though 
young, better provided with everything than Barbadoes), the 
excellence of the climate, the books which are there, the print- 
ing press which hath already been established, the learned 
ministers, the college, the schools, and the freedom of re- 
ligion, I should have been nothing loath to remain there. But 
1 was constrained first to go home. I found also, which as- 
tonished me, so great a love of liberty that the people speak 
slightingly of the English at home who tamely suffer the dis- 
abilities of the Non-conformists and the prerogative of the 
Crown; and they ask why, when the country had succeeded in 
establishing a Commonwealth, they could not keep it? It cer- 
tainly can not be denied, as they argue, that Israel acted 
against the will of the Lord in seeking a king. 

So we left them. But in how changed a condition did we 
now cross the ocean! Instead of huddling in a noisome and 
stinking dungeon, unclean for want of water, ill-fed, and with 
no change of raiment, we had now comfortable cabins, clothes 
such as become a gentleman, and food of the best. And 
Barnaby, who had then sat humbly in the waist, where the 
prisoners were confined, now walked the quarter-deck — a laced 
kerchief round his neck, lace ruffles at his wrist, a scarlet coat, 
a sword at his side, and gold-lace in his hat; the captain of 
the ship. 

The winds were conti’ary, and it was not until the last days 
of October that we arrived at Bristol. Here we lay for a few 
days, while Barnaby transacted his business, resolving to re- 
main in retirement, for feajc of accidents, until our captain 
should be ready to ride with us to Bradford 'Orcas. 

The first news we learned was joyful indeed. It was that 
the Prince of Orange himself was about to invade England, 
with intent to drive his father-in-law from the throne. (He 
had, indeed, already sailed, but his fleet was driven back by a 
storm. ) It was also stated that he had with him a great army 
of Dutch and English, and such preparations of arms and 
ammunition as (it was hoped) would xnnke such a failure as 
that of our unhappy duke impossible. < 

We also confirmed Barnaby ^s information that Monmouth^s 
men could now go about without fear or molestation. 

As to the position of affairs at Bradford Orcas, we could 
learn nothing. 

There was one point in which I was curious, namely, as to 
what Barnaby would do in the matter of the villain Penne. 
On the one hand, it was certain that Barnaby would not for- 


840 


FOK FAITH AHD FREEDOM. 


get this man, nor was he likely to sit down with his arms 
folded after he had been robbed of so great a sum. 

Therefore, I was not surprised when, the evening before we 
rode out of Bristol, he brought a big bag of blue stuff in his 
hands and poured out the contents — a vast shower of gold 
pieces — into the lap of his astonished sister. 

Grace, he said, I bring you back your money. You 
will find it all here, and Mr. BoscoreTs money to boot. He 
hath disgorged. 

With that he sat down and laughed, but as one who hath a 
joke in secret, and would tell us no more. 

For a day or two after this he would (on the road to Brad- 
ford Orcas) begin to laugh at intervals, rolling about in his 
.saddle, shaking his sides, choking with laughter — insomuch 
that I presently lost patience with him, and, as a physician, 
oi’dered him instantly to make full confidence, or 1 would not 
answer for it but he would have a fit. 

Then he told us what he had done. 

Toward five in the afternoon, when the winter day is ended, 
he repaired to the man Fennels counting-house (a place easily 
found on inquiry), having with him one of those fellows who 
bawl at fairs, selling medicines and charms, drawing teeth, 
letting blood, and so forth. At the sight of a sea-captain, 
many of whom came to this place, the worthy merchant’s 
servant, without suspicion, opened the door of the private 
office or chamber, where Mr. Penne transacted his affairs. 
Barnaby found him dozing by the fire, his wig on the table, 
a silk handkerchief over his head, and the candles already 
lighted. 

He awoke, however, on the opening of the door. 

Friend, said Barnaby, am Captain Barnaby Eykin, 
commanding the ship ‘ Pilgrim,^ from Boston, at your service; 
I am also brother to the young woman, Grace Eykin, whom 
you robbed (Twas my money) of two hundred and fifty pounds, 
and afterward kidnapped. 

Mr. Penne looked about him, and would have cried out for 
assistance, but Barnaby clapped a pistol to his forehead; then 
he sunk in his chair and gasped. 

Stir not,^'’ said his enemy. I am also one of the three 
rebels for whose ransom the Rev. Philip Boscorel, Rector of 
Bradford Orcas, paid the sum of two hundred and ten pounds, 
which you have also stolen.^'’ 

Sir, said Mr. Penne, ‘^upon my honor, those moneys 
were sent to Barbadoes. Upon my honor, sir.^^ 

You will, therefore/^ said Barnaby, taking no heed of 


FOR FAITH AHO FREEDOM. 341 

this assurance, pay over to me the sum of four hundred and 
sixty pounds, with interest at five per cent, for three years, 
which I have calculated; the whole amount is five hundred and 
twenty-nine pounds. Begin by paying this."^^ 

Weil, to make a long story short, though the man protested 
that he had not so much in the world, yet he presently opened 
his strong-box and counted out the money, all in gold. This 
done, he hoped to be let oft*. 

There now remains, said Barnaby, the punishment; 
and I forgot sister^s ring — I ought to have added fifty pounds 
for that. But time presses. Perhaps I shall come back. I 
did intend to kill thee, brother, for thy great villainy. How- 
ever — 

He then beckoned the man with him, who lugged out of his 
pocket an instrument which made Mr. Penne shake and quake 
with terror. Barnaby then informed his victim that as he had 
I been the means of infiicting grievous bodily suffering upon 
I four undeserving people, it was meet and right that he him- 
I self should experience something which, by its present agony, 

‘ should make him compassionate for the future, and by its 
permanence of injury should prevent his ever forgetting that 
compassion for the rest of his life. He therefore, he told 
him, intended to draw from his head four of his stoutest and 
strongest grinders. 

This, in- a word, he did; the man with him dragging them 
out with the pincers; Barnaby holding the pistol to the poor 
wretches head, so that he should not bellow and call for assist- 
ance. 

His laughter was caused by the remembrance of the twist- 
ing of the man^s features in this agony, and by his meanings 
and groanings. The grinders he had brought away with him 
in his pocket, and showed them in triumph. 

It was late in the afternoon when we rode into Bradford 
Orcas. The wintery sun, now setting, lay upon the woods, 
yellow and red with the autumn leaves not yet fallen. As we 
neared the village the sun went down, and a mist began to 
rise. The doors were closed, and no one looked forth to greet 
us; the old cottage where Grace was born and lived so long 
was empty still; the door was open, the shutter hung upon 
one hinge; the honey hives were overturned, the thatch was 
broken; the garden was neglected. 

Whjy Sis/’ said Barnaby, thy mother is not there; nor 
Dad — is he? — poor old Dad!^^ 

We rode up the village till we came to the church, and the 
Manor House beside it, Alas! the house itself was closed, 


342 


FOR FAITH AKD FREEDOM. 


which had formerly stood open to all. There was no smoke 
from its chimneys, and the grass grew in the court -yard. We 
dismounted and opened the door, which was not locked. We 
went into the house; all was cold, was empty, and deserted. 
The twilight falling outside made the rooms dark. Beside the 
fire-place stood Sir Ohristopher^s great chair, empty; his tank- 
ard was on the table and his tobacco-pipe, and — strange! — 
lay, forgotten, the unhappy duke^s Proclamation. 

Then a truly wonderful thing happened. Barnaby says that 
I must have dreamed it, for he saw nothing. Suddenly Sir 
Christopher himself appeared sitting in the chair; on his knees 
lay the Bible open. Beside him stood, with upraised forefin- 
ger, as if commenting on some knotty point, the Eev. Dr. 
Comfort Eykin. I declare that I saw them plainly, as plainly 
as I now behold the paper on which I write. They were but 
as shadows in the dark shadows of the empty room, and they 
appeared but for a moment' and then vanished, and I saw 
them no more. 

Come to the Eectory,^^ said Eobin; it chokes us to be 
here."^ 

Listen,’^ said Grace, outside the house. 

Prom the Eectory there came the sound of a violoncello. 
Then was the good rector himself there, comforting his soul. 

We opened the garden gate and walked softly across the lawn 
and looked in at the window (Twas made after the foreign 
fashion, to open upon the lawn). Beside the fire sat madame, 
her hands clasped, thin, pale, and prematurely aged. Thus 
had she sat for three long years, still waiting for news of her 
son. 

The rector laid down his bow, crossed the room, and sat 
down to the spinet (on which, he played prettily, but not with 
such command as he possessed over the other instrument). He 
played — I caught Grace^s hand — an air of my own making, to 
which I had set certain words, also of mine own. 

Then, while he played, we began to sing outside the win- 
dow, Grace singing treble, or first, and I the second part, the 
words of that little song. We sung it 'giano^ softly, at first, 
and then crescendo, or louder; 

As rides the moon in azure skies 
The twinkling stars beside, 

As when in splendor she doth rise,. 

The lesser lights they hide, 

8o beside Celia, when her face we see, 

All unregarded other maidens be/* 


FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. 


343 


When we bfigan softly, as I said, the rector looked around 
him, playing still and listening. He thought the voices were 
in his own br^in — echoes or memories of the past. Madame 
heard them too, and sat up listening as one who listens in a 
dream. When we sung louder, madame sprung to her feet, 
and held out her arms — but the rector played the verse quite 
through. Then he opened the window for us. 

My son! my son^^ cried madame. 


CHAPTER L. 

THE GREAT LORD CHANCELLOR. 

But the Prince of Orange had already landed. 

We learned this news next day, and you may be sure that 
we were in the saddle again and riding to Exeter, there to join 
his standard. 

This we did with the full consent of madame and of Grace. 
Much as we had suffered already, they would not deter us, be- 
cause this thing would have been approved by Sir Christopher 
and Dr. Eykin. Therefore we went. We were successful. 
Yet was not Barnaby made an admiral, nor was I a Court 
physician; we got, in fact, no reward at all, except that for 
Barnaby was procured a full pardon on account of the homicide 
of his late master. 

My second campaign, as everybody knows, was bloodless. 
To begin with, we had an army, not of raw country lads 
armed indifferently and untrained, but of veteran troops, fif- 
teen thousand strong, all well equipped, and with the best 
general in Europe at their head. At first, indeed, such was 
the dread m. men^s minds caused by Lord Jeffreys^ cruelties, 
few came in; yet this was presently made up by what followed, 
when, without anyffighting at all,^the hinge’s regiments melted 
away, his priests fled, and his friends deserted him. This was 
a very different business from that other, when we followed 
one whom I now know to have been a mere tinsel pretender, 
no better fitted to be a king than a vagabond actor at a fair is 
fit to be a lord. Alas! what blood was wasted in that mad at- 
tempt! — of which I was myself one of the most eager pro- 
moters. I was then young and I believed all that I was told 
by the conspirators in Holland; I took their list of well-wishers 
for insurgents already armed and waiting only for a signal; I 
thought the roll of noble names set down for sturdy Protest- 
ants as that of men already pledged to the Cause; I believed 
that the whole nation would rise at the first opportunity to 


344 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


turn out the priests; I even believed in the legitimacy of the 
duke^ an^ that against the express statement of his father (if 
King Charles was in reality his father), and I believed what 
they told me of his princely virtues, his knowledge of the art 
of war, and his heroic valor. I say that I believed all these 
things, and that I became a willing and zealous tool in their 
hands. As for what those who planned the expedition be- 
lieved, I know not; nor will any one now ever learn what 
promises were made to the duke, what were broken, and why 
he was, from the outset, save for a few days at Taunton, so 
dejected and disappointed. As for me, I shall always believe 
that the unhappy man — unwise and soft-hearted — was be- 
trayed by those whom he trusted. 

It is now an old tale, though King Monmouth will not 
speedily be forgotten in the West Country, nor will the memory 
of the Bloody Assize. The brave lads who followed him are 
dead and buried; some in unhonored graves hard by the place 
where they were hanged, some under the burning sun of the 
West Indies; Jthe duke himself hathjong^since paid the pen- 
alty of his rash attempt. All is over and ended, except the 
memory of it. 

It is now common history, known to everybody, how the 
Prince of Orange lingered ii;L the West Country, his army in- 
active, as if he knew (doubtless he was well informed upon this 
particular) that the longer he remained idle the more likely 
was the king^s cause to fall to pieces. There are some who 
think that if King James had risked an action he could not 
but have gained, whatsoever its event — I mean that, the blood 
of his soldiers once roused, they would have remained steadfast 
to him, and would have fought for him. But this he dared 
not to risk; wherefore the prince did nothing, while the hinge’s 
regiments fell to pieces and his friends deserted him. It was 
in December when the prince came to Windsor, and I with 
him, once more chirurgeon in a rebel army. While there I 
rode to London — partly with the intention of judging for my- 
self on the temper of this people; partly because, after so long 
an absence, I wished once more to visit a place where there 
are books and pictures; and partly because there were certain 
notes and herbs which I desired to communicate to the Col- 
lege of Physicians in Warwick Lane. It happened to be the 
very day when the king^s first flight — that, namely, when he 
was taken in the Isle of Slieppey — became known. The streets 
in the City of London I found crowded with people hurrying 
to and fro, running in bands and comiDanies, shouting and cry- 
ing, as if in the presence of some great and imminent danger. 


Foil FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


345 


It was reported and currently believed that the disbanded Irish 
soldiers had begun to massacre the Protestants. • There was 
no truth at all in the report ; but yet the bells were ringing 
from all the towers^ the crowds were exhorting each other to 
tear down and destroy the Komish chapels, to hunt for and to 
hang the priests, and especially Jesuits (I know not whether 
they found any), and to shout for the Prince of Orange. I 
stood aside to let the crowds (thus religiously disposed) run 
past, but there seemed no end to them. Presently, however 
(this was in front of the new Eoyal Exchange), there drew 
near another kind of crowd. There marched six or eight 
sturdy fellows bearing stout cudgels and hauling along a ;^ris- 
oner. Eound them mere ran, shrieking, hooting, and cursing, 
a mob of a hundred men and more; they continually made 
attacks upon the guard, fighting them with sticks and fists; 
but they were always thrust back. I thought at first that 
they had caught some poor wretched priest whom they desired 
to murder. But it proved to be a prize worth many priests. 
As they drew nearer, I discerned the prisoner. He was dressed 
in the garb of a common sailor, with short petticoats (what 
they call slops) and a jacket; his cap had been torn off, leav- 
ing the bare skull, which showed that he was no sailor (because 
common sailors do not wear wigs); blood was fiowing down 
his cheek from a fresh wound; his eyes rolled hither and thither 
in an extremity of terror; I could not hear what he said for 
the shouting of those around him, but his lips moved, and I 
think he was praying his guards to close in and protect him. 
Never, surely, was seen a more terror-stricken creature. 

I knew his face. Once seen (I had seen it once) ilj^could 
never be forgotten. The red and bloated cheeks, which even 
his fear coifid not make pale; the eyes, more terrible than 
have been given to any other human creature; these I could 
not forget— in dreams I see them still. I saw that face at 
Exeter, when the cruel judge exulted over our misery and re- 
joiced over the sentence which he pronounced. Yea, he 
laughed when he told us how we should swing, but not till we 
were dead, and then the knife — delivering his sentence so that 
no single point of its horror should be lost to us. Yes, it was 
the face of Judge Jeffreys — none other; this abject wretch 
was that great judge. Why, when we went back to our prison 
there were some who cast themselves upon the ground, 
and for terror of what was to come fell into a mere dementia. 
And now I saw him thus humbled, thus disgraced, thus threat- 
ened, thus in the last extremity and agony of terror. 

They had discovered him, thus disguised and in hiding, at 


346 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


a tavern in Wapping, and were dragging him to the presence 
of the lord mayor. It is a long distance from Wapping to 
Guildhall, and they went but slowly, because they were beset 
and surrounded by these wolves who howled to have his blood. 
And all the way he shrieked and trembled for fear. 

Sure and certain is the vegneance of the Lord. 

This Haman, this unjust judge, was thus suffering, at the 
hands of the savage mob, pangs far worse than those endured 
by the poor rustics whom he had delivered to the executioner. 
I say worse, because I have not only read, but have myself 
proved, that the rich and the learned — those, that is, who live 
luxuriously and those who have power to imagine and to feel 
beforehand — do suffer far more in disease than the common 
ignorant folk. The scholar dies of terror before ever he feels 
the surgeon^s knife, while the rustic bares his limb, insensible 
and callous, however deep the cut or keen the pain. I make 
no doubt, therefore, that the great lord chancellor, while 
they haled him all the way from Wapping to Guildhall, 
suffered as much as fifty plow-boys flogged at the cart-tail. 

Many thousands there were who desired revenge upon him — 
I know not what revenge would satisfy the implacable; be- 
cause revenge can do no more than kill the body; but his 
worst enemy should be satisfied with this, his dreadful fate. 
Even Barnaby, who was sad because he could get no revenge 
on his own account (he wanted a bloody battle, with a rout of 
the king’s armies and the pursuit of a flying enemy, such as 
had happened at Sedgemoor), was satisfied with the justice 
which was done to that miserable man. It is wonderful that 
he was not killed amid so many threatening cudgels; but his 
guards prevented that; not from any love they bare him; but 
quite the contrary (more unforgiving faces one never saw); 
for they intended to hand him over to the lord mayor, and 
that he should be tried for all his cruelties and treacheries, 
and perhaps experience himself that punishment of hanging 
and disemboweling which he^had inflicted on so many ignorant 
and misled men. 

How he was committed to the Tower, where he shortly died 
in the greatest torture of body as well as mind, everybody 
knows. 


CHAPTER LI. 

THE CONFESSION. 

Now am I come to the last event of this history, and I have 
to write down the confession of my own share in that evenk 


FOli FAITH AKD FREEDOM. 347 

Por the others — for Grace and for Kobin — the thing must be 
considered as the crown and completion of all the mercies. 
For me — what is ifc? But you shall hear. When the secrets 
of all hearts are laid open — then will Grace hear it also; what 
she will then say, or what think, I know not. It was done for 
her sake — for her happiness have I laid this guilt upon my 
soul. Nay, Vhen the voice of conscience doth exhort me to 
repent, and to confess my sin, then there still ariseth withiii 
my soul as it were the strain of a joyful hymn, a song of 
gratitude that I was enabled to return her to freedom and the 
arms of the man she loved. If any learned doctor of divinity, 
or any versed in that science which the Romanists love (they 
call it casuistry), should happen to read this chapter of con- 
fession, I pray that they consider my case, even though it will 
then be useless as far as I myself am concerned, seeing that I 
shall be gone before a J udge who will, I hope, even though 
my earthly affections do not suffer me to separate my sin 
from the consequences which followed, be more merciful than 
I have deserved. 

While, then, I stood watching this sign,al example of God^s 
wrath, I was plucked gently by the sleeve, an^ turning, saw 
one whose countenance I knew not. He was dressed as a 
lawyer, but his gown was ragged and his bands yellow; he 
looked sunk in poverty, and his face was inflamed with those 
signs which proclaim aloud the habit of immoderate drinking. 

Sir,^"' he said, “if I mistake not, you are Doctor 
Huriiphrey Challis?’^ 

“ The same, sir; at your service, I replied, with some 
misgivings. And yet, being one of the princess following, 
there needed none. 

“ I have seen you, sir, in the chambers of your cousin, Mr. 
Benjamin Boscorel, my brother learned in the law. We drank 
together, though (I remember) you still passed the bottle. It 
is now four or five years ago. I wonder not that you have 
forgotten me. We change quickly, we who are the jolly com- 
panions of the bottle; we drink our noses red, and we paint 
our cheeks purple; nay, we drink ourselves out of our last 
guinea, and out of our very apparel. What then, sir? A 
short life and a merry. Sir, yonder is a sorry sight. The 
first law-officer of the Crown thus to be haled along the streets 
by a howling mob. Ought such a thing to be suffered? ^Tis 
a sad and sorry sight, I say. ^^ 

“ Sir,^^ I replied, hotly, “ought such villains as Judge 
Jeffreys to be suffered to live?’^ 

lie considered a little, as one who is astonished and desires 


348 


FOE FAITH AKTD FREEDOM. 


to collect his thoughts. Perhaps he had already taken more 
than a morning draught. 

‘‘I remember now/^ he said. “My memory is not so 
good as it was. We drink that away as well. Yes, I remem- 
ber — I crave your forgiveness, doctor. You were yourself 
engaged with Monmouth. Your cousin told me as much. 
Naturally you love not this good judge, who yet did nothing 
but what the king, his master, ordered him to do. I, sir, have 
often had the honor of sitting over a bottle with his lordship. 
When his infirmities allowed, though not yet old, he is griev- 
ously afflicted, he had no equal for a- song or a jest, and would 
drink so long as any were left to keep him company. Ha! 
they have knocked him down — now they will kill him. No; 
he is again upon his feet; those who protect him close in.‘ 
So — they have passed out of our sight. Doctor, shall we 
crack a fiask together? I have no money, unhappily; but I 
will with pleasure drink at thy expense. 

I remembered the man^s face now, but not his name. 
^Twas one of Ben^s boon companions. Well, if hard drinking 
brings men so speedily to rags and poverty, even though it be 
a merry life, which I doubt, give me moderation. 

“ I pray, sir,^^ I said, coldly, “ to have me excused. I am 
no drinker. 

“ Then, doctor, you will perhaps lend me, until we meet 
again, a single guinea?^'' 

I foolishly complied with this request. 

“ Doctor, 1 thank you,^^ he said. “Will you now come 
and drink with me at my expense? Sir, I say plainly, you do 
not well to refuse a friendly glass. I could tell you many 
things, if you would but drink with me, concerning my Lord 
Jeffreys. There are things which would make you laugh. 
Come, doctor; I love not to drink alone. Your cousin, now, 
was always ready to drink with any man, until he fell ill — 

“ How? Is my cousin ill?"''' 

“Assuredly; he is sick unto death. Yesterday I went to 
visit him, thinking to drink a glass with him, and perhaps to 
borrow a guinea or two, but found him in bed and raving. If 
you will drink with me, doctor, I can tell you many curious 
things about your cousin. And now I remember, you were 
sent to the Plantations; your cousin told me so. You have 
returned before your time. Well, the king hath run away; 
you are, doubtless, safe. Your cousin hath gotten his grand- 
father's estate. Lord Jeffreys, who loved him mightily, pro' 
cured that grant for him. When your cousin wakes at mght 
he swears that he sees his grandfather by his bedside looking at 


FOR FAITH AHI) FREEDOM. 


349 


him reproachf ally, so that he drinks the harder; ^tis a merry 
life. He hath also married a wife, and she ran away from 
him at the church door, and he now can not hear of her or 
find her anywhere, so that he curses her and drinks the harder. 
Oh, ^tis always the jolliest dog. They say that he is not the 
lawyer that he was, and that his clients are leaving him. All 
mine have left me long since. Come and drink with me, 
doctor.'^'' 

I broke away from the poor toper who had drunk up his 
wits as well as his money, and hurried to my cousin^s cham- 
bers, into which I had not thought to enter save as one who 
brings reproaches — a useless burden. 

Benjamin was lying in bed; an old crone sat by the fire, 
nodding; beside her was a bottle, and she was, I found, half 
drunk. Her I quickly sent about her business. No one else 
had been attending him. Yet he was laid low, as I presently 
discovered, with that kind of fever which is bred in the 
villainous air of our prisons — the same fever which had car- 
ried off his grandfather. 

Perhaps, if there were no foul and stinking wards, jails, 
and clinks, this kind of fever would be banished altogether, 
and be no more seen. So, if we could discover the origin and 
cause of all diseases, we might once more restore man to his 
primitive condition, which I take to have been one free from 
any kind of disease or infirmity, designed at first by his Creator 
so to live forever, and, after the Fall, enabled, when medicine 
hath so far advanced, to die of old age after such prolongation 
of life and strength as yet we can not even understand. 

Cousin,^^ I said, I am sorry to find thee lying in this 
condition. 


Ay,^^ he replied, in a voice weak and low, not hke his 
old blustering tones. Curse me and upbraid me if you 
will. How art thou come hither? Is it the ghost of Hum- 
phrey? Art thou dead, like my grandfather? Are we on the 
Plantations of Barbadoes?^^ 

Indeed I am no ghost, Benjamin. As for curses, I have 
none, and as for reproaches, I leave them to your conscience. 

Humphrey, I am sore afflicted. I am now so low that I 
can not even sit upright in my bed. But you are a doctor — 
you will bring me back to health. I am already better only 
for seeing you here.^^ 

I declare that as yet I had no thought— no thought at all— 
of what I was to do. I was but a physician in presence of a 
sick man, and therefore bound to help him if I could. 

I asked him first certain questions, as physicians use, con- 


350 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


cerning his disorder and its symptoms. I learned that after 
attending at the court he was attacked by fits of shivering and 
of great heat^ being hot and cold alternately, and that in order 
to expel the fever he had sat drinking the whole evening— a 
most dangerous thing to do. Next, that in the morning he 
had been unable to rise from his bed, and, being thirsty, had 
drunk more wine — a thing enough of itself to kill a man in 
such a fever. Then he lost his head, and could tell me no 
more what had happened until he saw me standing by his 
bedside. In short, he had been in delirium and was now in a 
lucid interval, out of which he would presently fall a-wander- 
ing again, and perhaps raving, and so another lucid interval, 
after which he would die unless something could be done for 
him. 

I liked not his appearance, nor the account which he gave 
me — nor did I like his pulse, or the strange look in his eyes: 
Death doth often show his coming by such a prophetic terror 
of the eyes. 

Humphrey, he said, pitifully, it was no fault of mine 
that thou wast sent to the Plantations. 

That I know full well, cousin, I answered him. ‘^Be 
easy on that score. 

And as for Grace, he went on, all is fair in love.^^ 

I made no reply, because at this point a great temptation 
assailed my soul. 

You have heard how I learned many secrets of the women 
while I was abroad. Now while we were in Providence Island 
I found a woman of the breed they call half-caste — that is, 
half Indian and half Portuguese — living in what she called 
wedlock with an English sailor, who did impart to me a great 
secret of her own people. I obtained from her not only the 
knowledge of a most potent drug, known already to the 
Jesuits, but also a goodly quantity of the drug itself. This, 
with certain other discoveries 'and observations of my own, I 
was about to communicate to the college in Warwick Lane. 

As for this drug, I verily believe it is the most potent medi- 
cine ever yet discovered. It is now some years since it was 
first brought over to Europe by the Jesuits, and is therefore 
called Piilvis Jesuiticiis, and sometimes Peruvian Bark. 
When administered at such a stage of the fever as had now 
been reached by my unhappy cousin, it seldom fails to vivify 
the spirits, and so to act upon the nerves as to restore the 
sinking, and to call back to life a man almost moribund. 

Eemembering this, I lugged the packet out of my pocket 
and laid it on the table. 


JPOK FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


351 


Be of good cheer^, cousin, I said; I have a drug which 
is strong enough, with the help of God, to make a dying man 
sit up again. Courage, then!^^ 

When I had said these words my temptation fell upon me. 
It came in the guise of a voice which whispered in my ear. 

Should" this man die,^^ it said, there will be freedom for 
Grace. She can then marry the man she loves. She will be 
restored to happiness. While he lives, she must still continue 
in misery, being cut off from love. Let him die, therefore. 

Humphrey, said Ben, in this matter of Gracee, if she 
will come to me I will make her happy. But I know not 
where she is hidden. Things go ill with me since that un- 
lucky day. I would to God' I had not done it. Nothing hath 
gone well sincfe, and I drink daily to hide her face. Yet at 
night she haunts me — with her father, who threatens, and her 
mother, who weeps, and my grandfather, who reproaches. 
Humphrey — tell me — what is it, man? What mean your 
looks?^^ 

For while he spoke that other voice was in my ears also. 

Should he die, Grace will be happy again. Should he live 
she will continue in misery. At these words, which were but 
my own thoughts, yet involuntarily, I felt so great a pity, 
such an overwhelming love for Grace, that my spirit was 
wholly carried away. To restore her freedom! Oh, what 
price was too great for such a gift? Nay — I was seized with 
the thought that to give her so great a thing, even my own 
destruction, would be a light price to pay. Never, until that 
moment, had I known how fondly and truly 1 loved her. 
Why, if it were to be done over again — but this matters not. 
1 have to make my confession. 

“ Humphrey, speak!^^ I suppose that my trouble showed 
itself in my face. 

Thou art married to Grace, I said, slowly. That can 
not be denied. So long as thou livest, Benjamin, so long will 
she be robbed of everything that she desires, so long \?'ill she 
be unhappy. Now if thou shouldst die — 

Die? I cto not die; I must live.^^ He tried to raise him- 
self, but he was too weak. Cousin, save my life.^^ 

“ If thou shouldst die, Benjamin, I went on,, regardless of 
his words, she will be set free. It is only by thy death that 
she can be set free. Say, then, to thyself: ‘ I have done this 
poor woman so great an injury that nothing but my death can 
atone for it. Willingly, therefore, will I lay down my life, 
hoping thus to atone for this abominable wickedness. ^ 

“ Ilumphrey, do not mock me. Give me— give me — give 


352 


FOE FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


me speedily the drug of which you spoke. I die — I die! Oh 
give me of your drugT^ 

Then I took the packet containing the Pulvis Jesuiticus 
and threw it upon the fire^ where in a moment it was a little 
heap of ashes. 

^^Now, Benjamin/^ I said, ‘‘I can not help thee. Thou 
must surely die. 

He shrieked, he wept, he implored me to do something — 
something to keep him alive. He began to curse and to swear. 

“ No one can now save thee, Benjamin,'’^ 1 told him. Not 
all the College of Physicians; not all the medicines in England. 
Thou must die. Listen and heed: in a short time, unless thy 
present weakness causeth thee to expire, there will fall upon 
thee another fit of fever and delirium, after which another 
interval of reason; perhaps another — but yet thou must surely 
die. Prepare thy soul, therefore. Is there any message for 
Grace that thou wouldst send to her, being now at the point 
of death?^^ 

His only answer was to curse and weep alternately. 

Then I knelt beside his bed and prayed aloud for him. But 
incessantly he cried for help, wearing himself out with prayers 
and curses. 

‘‘ Benjamin,^^ I said, when I had thus prayed awhile, but 
ineffectually, I shall take to Grace, instead of these curses, 
which avail nothing, a prayer for pardon, in order to touch 
her heart and cause her to think of thee with forgiveness, as 
of one who repented at the end. This 1 shall do for her sake. 
I shall also tell thy father that thy death was repentant, and 
shall take to him also a prayer for forgiveness as from thee. 
This will lighten his sorrow, and cause him to remember thee 
with the greater love. And to Eobin, too,^so that he may 
cease to call thee villain, I will carry, not these ravings, but an 
humble prayer, as from. thyself, for forgiveness. 

This 'is my confession: i, who might have saved my cousin, 
suffered him to die. 

The’ sick man, when he found that prayers or curses would 
not avail, fell to moaning, rolling his head from side to side. 
When he was thus quiet I prayed again for him, exhorting him 
to lift up his soul to his J udge, and assuring him of our full 
forgiveness. But indeed, I know not if he heard or under- 
stood. It was then about four of the clock, and growing 
dark. 1 lighted a candle and examined him again. I think 
that he was now unconscious. He seemed as if he slept. I 
sat down and watched. 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 353 

I think that at midnight^ or thereabouts, I must have fallen 
asleep. 

When I awoke the candle was out, and the fire was out. 
The room was in perfect darkness. I laid my hand upon my 
cousin^s forehead. He was cold and dead. Then I heard the 
voice of the watchman in the street: Past two o^clock, and 
a frosty morning. 

The voice which I had heard before whispered again in my 
ear. 

Grace is free — Grace is ‘free! Thou — thou — thou alone 
hast set her free! Thou hast killed her husband !^^ 

I threw myself upon my knees and spent the rest of that 
long night in seeking for repentance, but then, as now, the 
lamentation of a sinner is also mingled with the joy of think- 
ing that Grace was free at last, and by none other hand than 
mine. 

This is my confesssion: I might have saved my cousin, and 
I suffered him to die. Wherefore I have left the profession 
in which it was my ambition to distinguish myself, and am no 
longer anything but a poor and obscure person, living on the 
charity of my friends in a remote village. 

Two days afterward I was sitting at the table, looking 
through the dead man^s papers, when I heard a footstep on 
the stair. 

, It was Barnaby, who broke noisily into the room. 

“ Where is BenjaminP^^ he cried. Where is that villain?^^ 
What do you want with him?^^ 

I want to kill him. I am come to kill him. 

‘^Look upon the bed, Barnaby.*’^ I laid back the sheet 
and showed him the pale face of the dead man. The hand 
of the Lord — or that of another — hath already kiled him. Art 
thou now content?^^ 


CHAPTER LII. 

In the decline of years, when the sixtieth birthday is near at 
hand and one looks not to live much longer, and the future 
hath no fresh joy to bring with it (but only infirmities of age 
and pain), it is profitable and pleasant to look back upon the 
past, to observe the guidance of the Unseen Hand, to repent 
. one^s sins, and to live over again those seasons, whether of sor- 
row or of joy, which we now perceive to have been providentially 
ordered. 

This have I done, both in reading the history of our lives as 


354 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


related by my mistress, and in writing this latter part. To 
the former have I added nothing, nor have I subtracted any- 
thing therefrom, because I would not suffer the sweet and can- 
did soul of her whom I have always loved to be tarnished by 
any words of mine, breaking in upon her own, as jarring notes 
in some lovely harmony. It is strictly laid upon me to deliver 
her words just as she hath written them down. 

Now, after the death of Benjamin, I took it upon myself, 
being his cousin, in the absence of his father, to examine the 
papers which he had left. Among them I found abundance of 
songs, chiefly in praise of wine and women, with tavern bills. 
Also, there were notes of legal cases, very voluminous, and I 
found notes of payment m^e to various persons engaged in 
inquiring after his wife, in those towns of the West Country 
where her father^s name would procure friends for her. But 
there was no will; Benjamin had died (never looking for so 
early an end) without making any will. Therefore, all his es- 
tate, including the Manor of Bradford Orcas (indeed, he had 
nothing else) now belonged to Grace, a widow who had never 
been a wife. 

It is thirty years ago and more. King William III. is dead; 
Queen Anne is dead; King George (who can not, they say, 
speak English, but is a stout Protestant) sits upon our throne; 
the Non-conformists are free, save that they can not enter the 
universities, and are subject to other disabilities, which will, 
doubtless, be removed in the course of years. But English 
people, I think, love power beyond all earthly things; and so 
long as the Church is in a majority, the churchmen will exer- 
cise their power and will not part with it. To us of Bradford 
Orcas it matters little. We worship at the parish church. 
Every Sunday I contemplate, as I did fifty years ago, the 
monument of Filipa kneeling apart, and of her husband and 
his second wife kneeling together. There is a new tablet in 
the chancel put up to the memory of Sir Christopher, and an-' 
other to that of Dr. Comfort Eykin. Their bodies lie some- 
where among the mounds on the north side of Ilminster 
Church. 

Forty years ago, as you have seen, there stood three boys in 
the garden of the Manor House discoursing on their future. 
One wished never to go anywhere, but to remain always a 
country gentleman, like his grandfather; one would be a great 
lawyer, a judge, even the lord chancellor; the third would be 
a great physician. Lo! the end of all! The first, but after 
divers miseries, perils, and wanderings, hath attained to his de- 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


355 


sire; the second lies buried in the church-yard of St. Andrew’s, 
Ilolborn, forgotten long since by his companions (who, indeed, 
are now with him in the pit), and remembered only among his 
own kin for fche great wickedness which he wrought before the 
Lord. And as for the third and last, no illustrious physician 
is he; but one who lives obscure (but content) in a remote vil- 
lage (in the very cottage where his mistress was born), with 
books and music, and the society of the sweetest woman who 
ever graced this earth for his solace. She was always gra- 
cious; she was. gracious in her childhood; gracious as a maiden; 
more gracious still is she in these latter days when her hair is 
gray, and her daughters stand about her, tall and comely. 

Now, had I administered that powder — that sovereign 
remedy, the Pulvis Jesuiticus — what would have been her lot? 

Humphrey,” said Robin, “ a penny for thy thoughts.” 

Robin, I was thinking — it is not a new thing, but twenty 
years old and more — that Cousin Benjamin never did anything 
in his life so useful as to die.” 

Ay, poor Benjamin! That he had at the end the grace 
to ask our forgiveness and to repent hath in it something of a 
miracle. We have long forgiven him. But consider, cousin. 
We were saved from the fight; we were saved from the sea; we 
were saved from slavery; we were enabled to strike the last 
blow for the Protestant religion — what were all these blessings 
worth if Benjamin still lived? To think, Humiihrey, that 
Grace would never have been my wife and never a mother; 
and all these children should have remained unborn! I say 
that, though we may not desire the death of a sinner, we were 
not human if we rejoiced not at the death of our poor cousin.” 

Yes; that is the thought which will not suffer me to repent. 
A single pinch of the Pulvis Jesuiticus, and he might have 
been living unto this very day; then would Grace have lost the 
crowning blessing of a woman’s life. 

Yet — I was, it is true, a physician — whose duty it is to save 
life, always to save life, even the life of the wretched criminal 
who is to die upon the gallows. 

Yet, again, if he had been saved! As 1 write these lines I 
see my mistress walking down the village street. She looks 
over my garden gate; she lifts the latchet and enters, smiling 
gravely and tenderly. A sober happiness sits upon her brow. 
The terror of her first marriage has long been forgotten. 

Why, as 1 watch her tranquil life, busy with her household 
and her children, full of the piety which asks not (as her father 
was wont to ask) how and where the mercy of Heaven is limit- 


856 


FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 


ed, and indeed^ it will embrace all she loves; as I mark the 
tender love of husband and of children which lies around her 
like a garment and pervades all her doings, there comes back, 
to me continually a bedroom in which a man lies dying. Again! 
in memory, again in intention, I throw upon the fire that* 
handful of Pulvis Jesuiticus which should have driven away 
his fever and restored him to health again. A great and strong 
man he was, who might have lived till eighty years; where 
then would have been that love? where those children? where 
that tranquil heart and that contented mind? I will not 
save Ms life.^^ I say again in my mind: / will not save 
Mm; he shall die.^^ 

Humphrey, my mistress says, “ leave thy books awhile 
and walk with me; the winter sun is warm upon the hills. 
Come, dear cousin, it is the day when Benjamin died — repent- 
hut — what better could we wish? What greater blessing could 
have been bestowed upon him, and upon us than a true repent- 
ance and to die? Ob, dear brother, let us walk and talk of 
these blessings which have been showered upon my undeserv- 
ing head. 


t 


THE END. 




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AUTHORS’ CATALOGUE. 

[When ordering by mail please order by numbers.'^ 


Works by the author of “ Addie’s 
Hushaiid,” 

388 Addie’s Husband ; or. Through 


Clouds to Sunshine 10 

504 My Poor Wife 10 

1046 Jessie 20 

Works by the author ot “A Fatal 
Dower,” 

246 A Fatal Dower 20 

372 Phyllis’ Probation 10 

461 His Wedded Wife 20 

829 The Actor’s Ward 20 

Works by the author of “ A Great 
^ Mistake.” 

244 A Great Mistake 20 

.588 Cherry 10 

1040 Clarissa’s Ordeal. 1st half ... 20 

1040 Clarissa’s Ordeal. 2d half 20 

1137 Prince Charming 20 

Works by the author of “A 
Woman’s Eove-Story.” 

322 A Woman’s Love-Story 10 

677 Griselda 20 

Mrs. Alexander’s Works. 

5 The Admiral’s MTard. 20 

17 The Wooing O’t 20 

62 The Executor 20 

189 Valerie’s Fate 10 

229 Maid, Wife, or Widow? 10 

2:16 Which Shall it Be? 20 


339 Mrs. Vereker’s Courier Maid.. 10 

490 A Second Life 20 

564 At Bay 10 

794 Beaton’s Bargain 20 

797 Look Before You Leap 20 

805 The Freres. 1st half 20 

805 The Freres. 2d half 20 

806 Her Dearest Foe. 1st half 20 

806 Her Dearest Foe. 2d half 20 

814 The Heritage of Langdale 20 

815 Ralph Wilton’s Weird 10 

900 By Woman’s Wit 20 

997 Forging the Fetters, and The 

Australian Aunt 20 

1054 Mona’s Choice 20 

1057 A Life Interest 20 

Alison’s Works. 

194 “So Near, and Yet So Far!”.. 10 

278 For Life and Love 10 

481 The House That Jack Built. . . 10 
F. Anstey’s Works. 

59 Vice Versa 20 

225 The Giant’s Robe 20 

503 The Tinted Venus. A Farcical 

Romance 10 

819 A Fallen Idol 20 

R..M. Ballantyne’s Works. 

89 The Red Eric 10 

95 The Fire Brigade 10 

96 Erling the Bold 10 

772 Gascoyne, the Sandal-Wood 

Trader 20 


2 


THE SEASIDE LIBRAE Y — Pocket Edition. 


Ilouore De Balzac’s Works. 


776 P^reGoriot 20 

1128 Cousin Pons 20 

S. Baring-Gould’s Works. 

787 Court Royal 20 

878 Little Tu’penny 10 

1122 Eve 20 

Frank Barrett’s Works. 

086 The Great Hesper 20 

1188 A Recoiling Vengeance 20 

Basil’s Works. 

844 “ The Wearing of the Green ” . 20 

547 A Coquette’s Conquest 20 

585 A Drawn Game 20 

Anne Beale’s Works. 

188 Idonea 20 

199 The Fisher Village 10 

Walter Besant’s Works. 

97 All in a Garden Fair 20 

137 Uncle Jack 10 

140 A Glorious Fortune 10 

146 Love Finds the Way,and Other 
Stories. By Besant and Rice 10 

230 Dorothy Forster 20 

324 In Luck at Last 10 

541 Uncle Jack 10 

651 “ Self or Bearer ” 10 

882 Children of Gibeon 20 

904 The Holy Rose 10 

906 The World Went Very Well 

Then 20 

980 To Call Her Mine . 20 

1055 Katharine Regina 20 

1065 Herr Paulus: His Rise, His 

X Greatness, and His Fall. 20 

1143 The Inner House 20 

1151 For Faith and Freedom 20 

M. Betham-Ed wards’s Works. 

278 Love and Mirage ; or, The Wait- 
ing on an Island 10 

579 The Flower of Doom,and Other 

Stories 10 

594 Doctor Jacob 20 

1028 Next of Kin— Wanted 20 

William Black’s Works. 

1 Yolande 20 

18 Shandon Bells 20 

21 Sunrise ; A Story of These 

Times 20 

23 A Princess of Thule 20 

39 In Silk Attire 20 n 

44 Macleod of Dare 20 

49 That Beautiful Wretch 20 


50 The Strange Adventures of a 

Phaeton 20 

70 White Wings: A Yachting Ro- 
mance 10 

78 Madcap Violet 20 

81 A Daughter of Heth 20 

124 Three Feathers. 20 

125 The»Monarch of Mincing Lane 20 

126 Kilmeny 20 


138 Green Pastures and Piccadilly 20 
265 Judith Shakespeare : Her Love 
Affairs and Other Adventures 20 
472 The Wise Women of Inverness 10 

627 White Heather 20 

898 Romeo and Juliet: A Tale of 

Two Young Fools 

962 Sabina Zembra. 1st half 

962 Sabina Zembra. 2d half 

1096 The Strange Adventures of a 

House-Boat 

1132 In Far Lochaber 

R. D. Blackmore’s Works. 

67 Lorna Doone. 1st half 

67 Lorna Doone. 2d half 

427 The Remarkable History of Sir 
Thomas Upmore, Bart., M. P. 

‘615 Mary Anerley 

625 Erema; or. My Father’s Sin.. 

629 Cripps, the Carrier 

630 Cradock Nowell. 1st half 

630 Cradock Nowell. 2d half 

631 Christowell. A Dartmoor Tale 

632 Clara Vaughan 

633 The Maid of Sker. 1st half... 

633 The Maid of Sker. 2d half. . . . 

636 Alice Lorraine. 1st half 

636 Alice Lorraine. 2d half 

926 Springhaven. 1st half 

926 Springhaven. 2d half 

Miss M. E. Braddon’s Works. 

35 Lady Audley’s Secret 

56 Phantom Fortune 

74 Aurora Floyd 

110 Under the Red Flag 

153 The Golden Calf 

204 Vixen 

211 The Octoroon 

234 Barbara ; or, Splendid Misery. 

263 An Ishmaelite 

315 The Mistletoe Bough. Christ- 
mas, 1884. Edited by Miss M. 

E. Braddon 

434 Wyllard’s Weird 

478 Diavola; or. Nobody’s Daugh- 
ter. Parti 

478 Diavola ; or. Nobody’s Daugh- 
ter. Part II 

480 Married in Haste. Edited by 
Miss M. E. Braddon 

487 Put to the Test. Edited by Miss 

M. E. Braddon • 

488 Joshua Haggard’s Daughter... 

489 Rupert Godwin 

495 Mount Royal 

496 Only a Woman. Edited by Miss 

M. E. Braddon 

497 The Lady’s Mile 

498 Only a Clod 

499 The Cloven Foot 

511 A Strange World 

515 Sir Jasper’s Tenant 

524 Strangers and Pilgrims 

529 TJie Doctor’s Wife 

542 Fenton’s Quest 20 

544 Cut by the County ; or, Grace 

Darnel 10 




THE SEASIDE LIBRARY — Pocket Edition. 


3 


548 The Fatal Marriage, and The 

Shadow in the Corner 10 

549 Dudley Carleon ; or, The Broth- 

er’s Secret, and George Caul- 
field’s Journey 10 

552 Hostages to Fortune 20 

553 Birds of Prey 20 

554 Charlotte’s Inheritance. (Se- 

quel to “ Birds of Prey ”) 20 

557 To the Bitter End 20 

559 Taken at the Flood 20 

560 Asphodel 20 

561 Just as I am; or, A Living Lie 20 

567 Dead Men’s Shoes 20 

570 John Marchmont’s Legacy 20 

G18 The Mistletoe Bough. Christ- 
mas, 1885. Edited by Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

840 One Thing Needful; or. The 

Penalty of Fate 20 

881 Mohawks. 1st half 20 

881 Mohawks. 2d half 20 

890 The Mistletoe Bough. Christ- 
mas, 1886. Edited by Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

943 Weavers and Weft; or, “ Love 

that Hath Us in His Net ” 20 

947 Publicans and Sinners; or, 

Lucius Da voren. 1st half 20 

947 Publicans and Sinners; or, ^ 
Lucius Davoren. 2d half. ... 20 

1036 Like and Unlike .’ . 20 

1098 The Fatal Three 20 

Works by Charlotte M. BraemC) 
Author of “Dora Thorne.” 

19 Her Mother’s Sin 10 

51 Dora Thorne 20 

54 A Broken Wedding-Ring 20 

68 A Queen Amongst Women 10 

69 Madolin’s Lover 20 

73 Redeemed by Love; or, Love’s 

Victory 20 

76 Wife in Name Only; or, A 

Broken Heart 20 

79 Wedded and Parted 10 

92 Lord Lynne’s Choice 10 

148 Thorns and Orange-Blossoms. 10 

190 Romance of a Black Veil 10 

220 Which Loved Him Best? 10 

237 Repented at Leisure. (Large 
type edition) 20 


249 “ Prince Charlie’s Daughter;” 

or. The Cost of Her Love 10 

250 Sunshine and Roses; or, Di- 

ana’s Discipline 10 

254 The Wife’s Secret, and Fair 

but False 10 

283 The Sin of a Lifetime ; or, Viv- 
ien’s Atonement 10 

287 At War With Herself 10 

923 At War With Herself. (Large 

type edition) 20 

288 From Gloom to Sunlight; or. 

From Out the Gloom 10 

955 From Gloom to Sunlight; or. 
From Out the Gloom. (Large 
type edition) 20 


291 Love’s Warfare 10 

292 A Golden Heart 10 

293 The Shadow of a Sin 10 

948 The Shadow of a Sin. (Large 

type edition) 20 

294 Lady Hutton’s Ward 10 

294 Hilda; or. The False Vow 10 

928 Lady Hutton’s Ward 20 

928 Hilda; or, The False Vow. 

(Large type edition) 20 

295 A Woman’s War 10 

952 A Woman’s War. (Large type , 

edition) 20 

296 A Rose in Thorns 10 

297 Hilary’s FoUy; or. Her Mar- 

riage Vow 10 

953 Hilary’s Folly; or. Her Mar- 

riage Vow. (Large type edi- 
tion) 20 

299 The Fatal Lilies, and A Bride 

from the Sea 10 

300 A Gilded Sin, and A Bridge of 

Love 10 

303 Ingledew House, and More Bit- 

ter than Death 10 

304 In Cupid’s Net 10 

305 ADeadHeart, and Lady Gwen- 

doline’s Dream 10 

306 A Golden Dawn, and Love for 

a Day 10 

307- Two Kisses, and Like no Other 

Love 10 

308 Beyond Pardon 20 

322 A Woman’s Love-Story 10 

328 A Willful Maid 20 

411 A Bitter Atonement 20 

433 My Sister Kate 10 

459 A Woman’s Temptation. 

(Large type edition) 20 

951 A Woman’s Temptation 10 

460 Under a Shadow 20 

465 The Earl’s Atonement 20 

466 Between Two Loves 20 

467 A Struggle for a Ring 20 

469 Lady Darner’s Secret; or, A 

Guiding Star 20 

470 Evelyn’s Folly 20 

471 Thrown on the World 20 

476 Between Two Sins ; or. Married 

in Haste 10 

516 Put Asunder ; or. Lady Castle- 

maine’s Divorce 20 

576 Her Martyrdom 20 

626 A Fair Mystery 20 

741 The Heiress of Hilldrop; or, 
The Romance of a Young 

Girl 20 

745 For Another’s Sin : or, A Strug- 
gle for Love 20 

792 Set in Diamonds 20 

821 The World Between Them 20 

853 A True Magdalen 20 

854 A Woman’s Error 20 

922 Marjorie 20 

924 ’Twixt Smile and Tear 2(1 

927 Sweet Cymbeline 20 

929 The Belle of Lynn; or. The 

Miller’s Daughter 20 

931 Lady Diana’s Pride. 20 


4 


THE SEASIDE LIBKARY— Pocket Edition 


949 ClaribePs Love Story; or, Love’s 


Hidden Depths 20 

958 A Haunted Life ; or, Her Terri- 
ble Sin 20 

969 The Mystery of Colde Fell; or, 

Not Proven 20 

073 The Squire’s Darling 20 

975 A Dark Marriage Morn : . , 20 

978 Her Second Love 20 

982 The Duke’s Secret 20 

985 On Her Wedding Morn, and 
The Mystery of the Holly-Tree 20 
988 The Shattered Idol, and Letty 

Leigh 20 

990 The Earl’s Error, and Arnold’s 

Promise 20 

995 An Unnatural Bondage, and 

That Beautiful Lady 20 

1006 His Wife’s Judgment 20 

1008 A Thorn in Her Heart 20 

1010 Golden Gates 20 

1012 A Nameless Sin. 20 

1014 A Mad Love , 20 

1031 Irene’s Vow ! 20 

1052 Signa’s Sweetheart 20 

1091 A Modern Cinderella 10 

1134 Lord Elesmere’s Wife ; 20 

1155 Lured Away; or. The Story of 
a Wedding - Ring, and The 
Heiress of Arne 20 


Charlotte Bronte’s Works. 


15 Jane Eyre 20 

57 Shirley! 20 

044 The Professor 20 


Khoda Broughton’s Works. 

80 Belinda 

101 Second Thoughts — 

227 Nancy 

645 Mrs. Smith of Longmains. 

758 “ Good-bj^e, Sweetheart!” 

765 Not Wisely, But Too Well 

^ 767 Joan 

768 Red as a Rose is She 

769 Cometh Up as a Flower 

862 Betty’s Visions 

894 Doctor Cupid 


731 

857 

857 


Mary E. Bryan’s Works. 

The Bayou Bride 

Kildee; or. The Sphinx of. the 

Red House. 1st half 

Kildee; or. The Sphinx of the 
Red House. 2d half 


20 

20 

20 

10 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

10 

20 

20 

20 

20 


Robert Buchanan’s Works. 


145 ” Storm-Beaten God and The 

Man 20 

154 Annan Water 20 

181 The New Abelard 10 

398 Matt : A Tale of a Caravan ... 10 

646 The Master of the Mine ... 20 

892 That Winter Night; or. Love’s 

Victory 10 

1074 Stormy Waters 20 

1104 The Heir of Linne 20 


Captain Fred Burnaby’s Works. 

375 A Ride to Khiva 20 

384 On Horseback Through Asia 
Minor 20 


E. Fairfax Byrrne’s Works. 

521 Entangled 20 

538 A Fair Country Maid 20 

Hall Caine’s Works. 

445 The Shadow of a Crime 20 

520 She’s All the World to Me 10 

Mrs. H. Lovett Cameron’s Works. 

595 A North Country Maid 20 

796 In a Grass Country 20 

891 Vera Nevill; or. Poor Wisdom’s 

912 Pure Goid! ‘ 1st half .V.V. ! ! ’. ! ’. ! 20 

912 Pure Gold. 2d half 20 

963 Worth Winning : . . . 20 

1025 Daisy’s Dilemma 20 

1028 A Devout Lover ; or, A Wasted 

Love 20 

1070 A Life’s Mistake 20 

Rosa Nouchette Carey’s Works. 

215 Not Like Other Girls 20" 

396 Robert Ord’s Atonement 20 

551 Barbara Heathcote’s Trial. 1st 

half 20 

551 Barbara Heathcote’s Trial. 2d 

half 20 

608 For Lilias. 1st half 20 

608 For Lilias. 2d half 20 

930 Uncle Max. 1st half 20 

930 Uncle Max. 2d half 20 

932 Queenie’s Whim. 1st half 20 

932 Queenie’s Whim. 2d half 20 

934 Wooed and Married. 1st half. 20 
934 Wooed and Married. 2d half. 20 
936 Nellie’s Memories. 1st half. . . 20 
936 Nellie’s Memories. 2d half. . . 20 


961 Wee Wifie 20 

1033 Esther: A Story for Girls 20 

1064 Only the Governess 20 

1135 Aunt Diana 20 

Lewis Carroll’s Works. 

462 Alice’s Adventures in Wonder- 
land. Illustrated by John 

Tenniel 20 

789 Through the Looking-Glass, 
and What Alice Found There. 
Illustrated by John Tenniel. . 20 

Wilkie Collins’s Works. 

52 The New Magdalen 10 

102 The Moonstone 20 

167 Heart and Science 20 

168 No Thoroughfare. By Dickens 

and Collins 10' 

175 Love’s Random Shot, and 

Other Stories 10 

233 “ I Say No ;” or. The Love-Let- 
ter Answered. 20 

508 The Girl at the Gate 10 

.591 The Queen of Hearts 20 

613 The Ghost’s Touch, and Percy 

and the Prophet 10 

623 My Lady’s Money 10 

701 The Woman in White. 1st half 20 

701 The Woman in White. 2d half 20 

702 Man and Wife. 1st half 20 

702 Man and Wife. 2d half 20 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 


761 The Evil Genius 20 

896 The Guilty River 20 

946 The Dead Secret 20 

977 The Haunted Hotel 20 

1029 Armadale. 1st half 20 

1029 Armadale. 2d half 20 

1095 The Legacy of Cain 20 

1119 No Name. 1st half 20 

1119 No Name. 2d half 20 

Mabel Collins’s Works. 

749 Lord Vanecourt’s Daughter. . . 20 
828 The PrettiestWoman in Warsaw 20 

Hugh Conway’s Works* 

240 Called Back , 10 

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Other Tales. 10 

301 Dark Days 10 

302 The Blatch ford Bequest 10 

502 Carriston’s Gift 10 

525 Paul Vargas, and Other Stories 10 

543 A Family Affair 20 

601 Slings and Arrows, and Other 

Stories 10 

711 A Cardinal Sin 20 

804 Living or Dead 20 

830 Bound by a Spell 20 

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309 The Pathfinder 20 

310 The Prairie 20 

318 The Pioneers ; or. The Sources 

of the Susquehanna 20 

349 The Two Admirals 20 

859 The Water-Witch 20 

361 The Red Rover 20 

373 Wing and Wing 20 

378 Homeward Bound; or, The 

Chase 20 

379 Home as Found. (Sequel to 

“ Homeward Bound”) 20 

380 Wyandotte; or. The Hutted 

Knoll 20 

385 The Headsman; or. The Ab- 

baye des Vignerons 20 

394 The Bravo 20 

397 Lionel Lincoln ; or. The Leag- 
uer of Boston 20 

400 The Wept of Wish-Ton-Wish. . 20 

413 Afloat and Ashore 20 

414 Miles Wallingford. (Sequel to 

“Afloat and Ashore”) 20 

415 The Ways of the Hour 20 

416 Jack Tier ; or. The Florida Reef 20 

419 4'he Chainbearer; or, The Lit- 

tle-page Manuscripts 20 

420 Satanstoe ; or, The Littlepage 

Manuscripts 20 

421 The Redskins ; or, Indian and 

Injin. Being the conclusion 
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422 Precaution 20 

423 The Sea Lions; or. The Lost 

Sealers 20 

424 Mercedes of Castile ; or. The 

Voyage to Cathay ... 20 


425 The Oak-Openings; or. The 

Bee-Hunter 20 

431 The Monikins 20 

1062 The Deerslayer; or. The First 

War-Path. 1st half 20 

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War-Path. 2d half 20 

Marie Corelli’s Works. 

1068 Vendetta ! or. The Story of One 

Forgotten 20 

1131 Thelma. 1st half 20 

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450 Godfrey Helstone... 20 

606 Mrs. Hollyer 20 

B. M. Croker’s Works* 

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260 Proper Pride. 10 

412 Some One Else 20 

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May Cromiiieliii’s Works. 

452 In the West Countrie 20 

619 Joy; or. The Light of Cold- 

Home Ford 20 

647 Goblin Gold 10 

Alphonse Daudet’s Works. 

534 Jack 20 

574 The Nabob : A Story of Parisian 
Life and Manners 20 

Charles Dickens’s Works. 

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22 David Copperfield. Vol. II... 20 

24 Pickwick Papers. Vol. 1 20 

24 Pickwick Papers. Vol. II 20 

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37 Nicholas Nickleby. 2d half . . . 20 

41 Oliver Twist 20 

77 A Tale of Two Cities . . 20 

84 Hard Times 10 

91 Barnaby Rudge. 1st half 20 

91 Barnaby Rudge. 2d half 20 

94 Little Dorrit. 1st half 20 

94 Little Dorrit. 2d half 20 

106 Bleak House. 1st half 20 

106 Bleak House. 2d half 20 

107 Dombey and Son. 1st half ... 20 

107 Dombey and Son. 2d half 20 

108 The Cricket on the Hearth, and 

Doctor Marigold 10 

131 Our Mutual Friend. 1st half. 20 

131 Our Mutual Friend. 2d half. . 20 

132 Master Humphrey’s Clock 10 

152 The Uncommercial Traveler. . 20 

168 No Thoroughfare. By Dickens 

and Collins 10 

169 The Haunted Man 10 

437 Life and Adventures of Martin 

Chuzzlewit. 1st half 20 

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439 Great Expectations 20 

440 Mrs. Lirriper’s Lodgings 10 

447 American Notes 20 


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Sarah Douclney’s Works. 

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679 Where Two Ways Meet 

F. Du Boisgohey’s Works. 

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First half 

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Second half 

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475 The Prima Donna’s Husband. 

522 Zig-Zag, the Clown ; or. The 

Steel Gauntlets 

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Parisian Romance 

648 The Angel of the Bells 

697 The Pretty Jailer. 1st half . . . 

697 The Pretty Jailer. 2d half 

699 The Sculptor’s Daughter. 1st 

half 

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half 

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851 The Cry of Blood. 2d half 

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942 Cash on Delivery 

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1080 Bertha’s Secret. 1st half 

1080 Bertha’s Secret. 2d half 

1082 The Severed Hand. 1st half. . 
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coq. 1st half 

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“The Duchess’’ s” Works. 

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950 Mrs. Geoffrey 

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30 Faith and Unfaith 

118 Loys, Lord Berresford, and 

Eric Dering 

119 Monica, and A Rose Distill’d. . 

123 Sweet is True Love 

129 Rossmoyne 

184 The Witching Hour, and Other 

Stories 


136 “That Last Rehearsal,’’ and 

Other Stories 10 

166 Moonshine and Marguerites. .. 10 
171 Fortune's Wheel, and Other 

Stories' 10 

284 Doris 10 

312 A Week’s Amusement; or, A 

Week in Killamey 10 

342 The Baby, and One New Year’s 

Eve 10 

390 Mildred Trevanion 10 

404 In Durance Vile, and Other 

Stories 10 

486 Dick’s Sweetheart 20 

494 A Maiden All Forlorn, and Bar- 
bara 10 

517 A Passive Crime, and Other 

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541 “ As It Fell Upon a Day.’’. . . . 10 

733 Lady Branksmere 20 

771 A Mental Struggle.. 20 

785 The Haunted Chamber 10 

862 Ugly Barrington 10 

875 Lady Valworth’s Diamonds. . . 20 
1009 In an Evil Hour, and Other 

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1016 A Modern Circe 20 

1035 The Duchess 20 

1047 Marvel 20 

1103 The Honorable Mrs. Vereker.. 20 
1123 Under-Currents 20 

Alexander Dumas’s Works. 

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75 Twenty Years After 20 

259 The Bride of Monte-Cristo. A 
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262 The Count of Monte-Cristo. 

Part 1 30 

262 The Count of Monte-Cristo. 

Part II 30 

717 Beau Tancrede ; or, The Mar- 
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1058 Masaniello; or. The Fishei'man 
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George Ebers’s Works. 

474 Serapis. An Historical Novel 20 

983 Uarda 20 

1056 The Bride of the Nile. 1st half 20 
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1094 Homo Sum 20 

1097 The Burgomaster’s Wife 20 

1101 An Egyptian Princess. Vol. I. 20 
1101 An Egyptian Princess. Vol. II. 20 

1106 The Emperor 20 

1112 Only a Word 20 

1114 The Sisters 20 ’ 

Maria Edgeworth’s Works. 

708 Ormond 20 

788 The Absentee. An Irish Story. 20 

Mrs. Annie Edwards’s Works. 

644 A Girton Girl 20 

834 A Ballroom Repentance 20 

835 Vivian the Beauty 20 

836 A Point of Honor 20 


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837 A Vagabond Heroine 

838 Ought We to Visit Her? 

839 Leah: A Woman of Fashion.. 

841 Jet: Her Face or Her Fortune? 

842 A Blue-Stocking 

843 Archie Lovell 

844 Susan Fielding 

845 Philip Earnscliffe ; or, The 

Morals of May Pair 

846 Steven Lawrence. 1st half. . . 

846 Steven Lawrence. 2d half 

850 A Playwright’s Daughter 

George Eliot’s Works. 

3 The Mill on the Floss 

31 Middlemarch. 1st half 

31 Middlemarch. 2d half 

34 Daniel Deronda. 1st half 

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36 Adam Bede. 1st half 

36 Adam Bede. 2d half 

42 Romola 

693 Felix Holt, the Radical 

707 Silas Marner : The Weaver of 
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728 Janet’s Repentance 

762 Impressions of Theophrastus 

Such 

B. li. Farjeoii’s Works. 

179 Little Make-Believe 

573 Tiove’s Harvest 

607 Self-Doomed 

616 The Sacred Nugget . 

657 Christmas Angel 

907 The Bright Star of Life 

909 The Nine of Hearts 

G. Manville Fenii’s Works. 

193 The Rosery Folk 

558 Poverty Corner 

587 The Parson o’ Dumford 

609 The Dark House . 

Octave Feuillet’s Works. 

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Man 

386 Led Astray; or, “La Petite 
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80 June 

280 Omnia Vanitas. A Tale of So- 
ciety 

484 Although He Was a Lord, and 

Other Tales 

715 I Have Lived and Loved 

721 Dolores 

724 My Lord and My Lady 

726 My Hero 

727 Fair Women 

729 Mignon 

732 From Olympus to Hades 

734 Viva 

736 Roy and Viola 

740 Rhona 

744 Diana Carew ; or, For a Wom- 
an’s Sake 

883 Once Again 


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314 Peril. 20 

572 Healey 20 

935 Borderland 20 

1099 The Lasses of Leverhouse. ... 20 

li. £. Fraucillou’s Works. 

135 A Great Heiress : A Fortune 

in Seven Checks 10 

319 Face to Face: A Fact in Seven 

Fables 10 

360 Ropes of Sand 20 

656 The Golden Flood. By R. E. 

Francilion and Wm. Senior.. 10 
911 Golden Bells 20 

Emile Gaboriau’s Works. 

7 File No. 113 20 

12 Other People’s Money 20 

20 Within an Inch of His Life. . . 20 

26 Monsieur Lecoq. Vol 1 20 

26 Blonsieur Lecoq. Vol. H 20 

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38 The Widow L^rouge 20 

43 The Mystery of Orcival 20 

144 Promises of Marriage 10 

979 The Count’s Secret. Part I . . . 20 
979 The Count’s Secret. Part H. . 20 

1002 Marriage at a Venture. 20 

1015 A Thousand Francs Reward . . 20 

1045 The 13th Hussars 20 

1078 The Slaves of Paris. 1st half 20. 
1078 The Slaves of Paris. 2(1 half. 20 
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ignolles 10 

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64 A Maiden Fair 10 

317 By Mead and Stream 20 

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566 The Royal Highlanders; or, 

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781 The Secret Dispatch 10 

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222 The Sun-Maid 20 

555 Cara Roma 20 

Arthur Griffiths’s Works. 

614 No. 99 10 

680 Fast and Loose 20 

H. Rider Haggard’s Works. 
432 The Witch’s Head . 20 

753 King Solomon’s Mines 20 

910 She: A History of Adventure. 20 

941 Jess 20 

959 Dawn 20 

989 Allan Quatermain 20 

1049 A Tale of Three Lions, and On 
Going Back 20 

1100 Mr. Meeson’s Will. 20 

1105 Maiwa’s Revenge 10 

1140 Colonel Quaritch, V. C 20 

1145 My Fellow Laborer 20 

Thomas Hardy’s Works. 

139 The Romantic Adventures of 

a Milkmaid 10 

530 A Pair of Blue Eyes 20 


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690 Far From the Madding: Crowd 20 
791 The Mayor of Caster bridge. .. 20 

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143 One False, Both Fair 20 

358 Within the Clasp 20 

Mary Cecil Hay’s Works. 

65 Back to the Old Home 10 

72 Old Myddelton’s Money 20 

196 Hidden Perils 20 

197 For Her Dear Sake 20 

224 The Arundel Motto 20 

281 The Squire’s Legacy 20 

290 Nora’s Love Test 20 

408 Lester’s Secret 20 

678 Dorothy’s Venture 20 

716 Victor and Vanquished 20 

849 A Wicked Girl 20 

987 Brenda Yorke 20 

1026 A Dark Inheritance 20 

Mrs, Cashel-Hoey’s Works. 

313 The Lover’s Creed 20 

802 A Stern Chase 20 

Tighe Hopkins’s Works, 

609 Nell Haffenden 20 

114 ’Twixt Love and Duty 20 

Thomas Hughes’s Works. 

120 Tom Brown’s School Days at 

Rugby 20 

1139 Tom Brown at Oxford. Vol. I. 20 
1139 Tom Brown at Oxford. Vol. H. 20 

Fergus W. Hume’s Works. 

1075 The Mystery of a Hansom Cab. 20 
1127 Madam Midas 20 

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332 Judith Wynne 20 

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117 A Tale of the Shore and Ocean 20 

133 Peter the Whaler 10 

761 Will Weatherhelm 20 

703 The Midshipman, Marmaduke 
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399 Miss Brown 20 

859 Ottilie: An Eighteenth Century 
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191 Harry Lorrequer 20 

212 Charles O’Malley, the Irish 

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473 A Lost Son 20 

620 Between the Heather and the 

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817 Stabbed in the Dark 10 

886 Paston Carew, Millionaire and 

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1109 Through the Long Nights. 1st 

half 20 

1109 Through the Long Nights. 2d 
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8am u el Lover’s Works, 

663 Handy Andy 20 

664 Rory O’More 20 

Edna Lyall’s Works. 

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1147 Knight-Errant. 1st half 20 

1147 Knight-Errant. 2d half 20 • 

1149 Donovan: A Modern English- 
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1149 Donovan: A Modern English- 
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40 The Last Days of Pompeii 20 

83 A Strange Story 20 

90 Ernest Maltravers 26 

130 The Last of the Barons. 1st half 20 
130 The Last of the Barons. 2d hair 20 

162 Eugene Aram 20 

164 Leila; or, The Siege of Grenada 10 
650 Alice ; or. The Mysteries. (A Se- 
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720 Paul Clifford 20 

1144 Rienzi. 1st half 20 

1144 Rienzi. 2d half 20 


George Macdonald’s Works. 

282 Donal Grant 20 

325 The Portent 10 

326 Phantastes. A Faerie Romance 

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722 What’s Mine’s Mine 20 

1041 Home Again 20 

1118 The Elect Lady 20 


Katharine 8. Macqiioid’s Works* 


479 Louisa 20 

914 Joan Wentworth 20 

E. Marlitt’s Works. 

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858 Old Ma’m’selle’s Secret 20 

972 Gold Elsie 20 

999 The Second Wife 20 

1093 In the Schillingscourt 20 

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1113 The Bailiff’s Maid 20 

1115 The Countess Gisela 20 

1130 The Owl-House 20 

4136 The Princess of the Moor 20 

Florence Marry at’s Works, 

159 Captain Norton’s Diary, and 

A Moment of Madness lO* 

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208 The Ghost of Charlotte Cray, 

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276 Under the Lilies and Roses. . . 10 

444 The Heart of Jane Warner 20 

449 Peeress and Player 20 

689 The Heir Presumptive 20 

825 The Master Passion 20 

860 Hfr Lord and Master 20 

861 My Sister the Actress 20 

863 “ My Own Child.” 20 

864 “No Intentions.” 20 

865 Written in Fire 20 

866 Miss Harrington’s Husband; 

or. Spiders of Society 20 

867 The Girls of Feversham 20 

868 Petronel 20 

869 The Poison of Asps 10 

870 Out of His Reckoning 10 

872 With Cupid’s Eyes 20 

873 A Harvest of Wild Oats 20 

877 Facing the Footlights 20 

893 Love’s Conflict. 1st half 20 

893 Love’s Conflict. 2d half 20 

895 A Star and a Heart 10 

897 Ange 20 

899 A Little Stepson 10 

901 A Lucky Disappointment 10 

903 Phyllida 20 

905 The Fair-Haired Alda 20 

939 Why Not? 20 

993 Fighting the Air 20 

998 Open Sesame 20 

1004 Mad Dumaresq 20 

1013 The Confessions of Gerald Est- 

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1022 Driven to Bay 20 

1126 Gentleman and Courtier 20 

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798 The Fashion of this World. ... 10 

799 My Lady Green Sleeves 20 

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121 Maid of Athens 20 

602 Camiola y 20 

685 England Under Gladstone. 

1880-^1885 20 

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350 Diana of the Crossways 10 

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267 Laurel Vane; or. The Girls’ 

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268 Lady Gay’s Pride; or, The 

Miser’s Treasure 20 

269 Lancaster’s Choice 20 

316 Sworn to Silence; or. Aline 

Rodney’s Secret 20 

Jean Middleinas’s Works. 

155 Lady Muriel’s Secret 20 

539 Silvermead 20 

Alan Muir’s Works. 

172 “ Golden Girls ” 20 

346 Tumbledown Farm 10 

Miss Mulock’s Works. 

11 John Halifax, Gentleman. 1st 

half 20 

11 John Halifax, Gentleman. 2d 

half 20 

245 Miss Tommy, and In a House- 

Boat 10 

808 King Arthur. Not a Love Storj' 20 

1018 Two Marriages 20 

1038 Mistress and Maid 20 

1053 Young Mrs. Jardine 20 

David Christie Murray’s Works. 

58 By the Gate of the Sea 10 

195 “ The Way of the World ” 20 

320 A Bit of Human Nature 10 

661 Rainbow Gold 20 

674 First Person Singular 20 

691 Valentine Strange 20 

695 Hearts: Queen, Knave, and 

Deuce 20 

698 A Life’s Atonement. 20 

737 Aunt Rachel 10 

826 Cynic Fortune 20 

898 Bulldog and Butterfly, and Ju- 
lia and Her Romeo. 20 

1102 Young Mr. Barter’s Repent- 
ance..., 10 


Works by the author of “ My 
Ducats and My Daughter.” 

376 The Crime of Christmas Day. 10 
596 My Ducats and My Daughter. . 20 

W. E. Norris’s Works. 

184 Thirlby Hall 20 

277 A Man of His Word 10 

355 That Terrible Man 10 

500 Adrian Vidal 20 

824 Her Own Doing 10 

848 My Friend Jim 20 

871 A Bachelor’s Blunder 20 

1019 Major and Minor. 1st haif 20 

1019 Major and Minor. 2d half. .... 20 

1084 Chris \. 20 

1141 The Rogue. 1st half .1 20 

1141 The Rogue. 2d half \ 20 

Liaurence Oliphant’s Worksi 

47 Altiora Peto 

537 Piccadilly :\0 




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177 Salem Chapel ’ " ’ * 20 

205 The Minister’s Wife. . ! 30 

321 The Prodigals, and Their in- 
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337 Memoirs and Resolutions of 
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including some Chronicles of 

the Borough of Fendie 20 

315 Madam 20 

‘i51 The House on the Moor. ..... 20 

^i57 John " 20 

370 Lucy Crofton 10 

371 Margaret Maitland 20 

377 Magdalen Hepburn : A Story of 

the Scottish Reformation 20 

402 Lilliesleaf ; or, Passages in the 
Life of Mrs. Margaret Mait- 
land of Sunnyside 

410 Old Lady Mary 

527 The Day's of My Life. . ! ! 

528 At His Gates 

568 The Perpetual Curate. . . 

569 Harry Muir 

603 Agnes. 1st half 

603 Agnes. 2d half 

604 Innocent. 1st half 


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604 Innocent. :i;a naif 20 

605 Ombra 20 

645 Oliver’s Bride ! ! 10 

655 The Open Door, and The Por- 
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687 A Country Gentleman. . . . *. . . ! ! 20 
703 A House Divided Against Itself 20 
710 The Greatest Heiress in Eng- 
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827 Effie ogilvie ;;;;;;; 20 


880 The Son of His Father 
902 A Poor Gentleman . 


“ Ouida’s ” Works, 

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9 Wanda, Countess von Szalras . 20 

11€ Moths 20 

128 Afternoon, and Other Skeiihes 10 

226 Friendship 20 

228 Princess Napraxine 20 

238 Pascarel..... ■■*20 

'■m Signa 20 

4-33 A Rainy June 10 

639 Otlimar. 1st half ’ ‘ 20 

639 Othmar. 2d half ' 20 

671 Don Gesualdo : . . . lo 

672 III Maremma. 1st half 20 

672 In Maremma. 2d half 20 

874 A House Party . ’ iq 

974 Strathmore; or, Wrought by 

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974 Strathmore; or. Wrought by 

Hand. 2d half. . . . ; 20 
961 Granville de Vigne; or, Held in 

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9fil Granville de Vigne; or, Held in 

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f96 Idalia. 1st half 20 

996 Idalia. 2d half ’ 20 

1000 Puck, 1st half 20 

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186 The Canon’s Ward 
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577 In Peril and Privation. . 

589 The Luck of the Darrells 

823 The Heir of the Ages 

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660 The Scottish Chiefs. 1st half 20 
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696 Thaddeus of Warsaw 20 

Cecil Power’s Works. 

336 Philistia on 

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4 1 1 Affinities in 

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173 The Foreigners. 

331 Gerald 


10 


10 


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46 Very Hard Cash . 

98 A Woman-IJater 
206 The Picture, and Jack of All 

Trades 

210 Readiana: Comments on Cur- 
rent Events 

213 A Terrible Temptation . . 

214 Put Yourself in His Place 

216 Foul Play 

Gaunt; or, Jealousy,. 
232 Love and Money ; or, A Peril- 
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235 “It is Never Too Late to 
Mend. ” A Matter- of -Fact Ro- 
mance 

Mrs. J, H. Riddell’s Works. 

^ Struggle for Fame i 

593 Bema Boyle 

1007 Miss Gascoigne. . 

1077 The Nun’s Curse. 

“Rita’s” Works, 

252 A Sinless Secret. 

446 Dame Durden. 

598 “ Corinna.” A Study lo 

617 Like Dian’s Kiss 20 

1125 The Mystery of a Turkish Bat li 10 

F, W. Robinson’s Works, 

157 Milly’sHero 20 

217 The Man She Cared For. 20 

261 A Fair Maid [ [ . 20 

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223 A Sailor’s Sweetheart 20 

592 A Strange Voyage 20 

682 In the Middle Watch. Sea 

Stories.? . 20 

713 Jack’s Courtship. 1st half. . . 20 

743 Jack’s Courtship. 2d half 20 

884 A Voyage to the Cape 20 

916. The Golden Hope 20 

1044 The Frozen Pirate 20 

1048 The Wreck of the “Grosvenor” 20 
1129 The Flying Dutchman; or, The 

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257 Beyond Recall 10 

812 No Saint 20 

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28 Ivan hoe 20 

201 The Monastery 20 

202 The Abbot. (Sequel to “The 

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353 The Black Dwarf, and A Le- 
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362 The Bride of Lammermoor. . . 20 

363 The Surgeon’s Daughter 10 

364 Castle Dangerous 10 

391 The Heart of Mid-Lothian..^'. 20 

392 Peveril of the Peak 20 

393 The Pirate 20 

401 Waverley 20 

417 The Fair Maid of Perth ; or, St. 

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418 St. Ronan’s Well 20 

463 Redgauntlet. A Tale of the 

Eighteenth Century 20 

507 Chronicles of the Canongate, 

and Other Stories 10 

1060 The Lady of the Lake 20 

1063 Kenilworth. 1st half 20 

1063 Kenilworth, ^d half 20 

J. H. Sliorthoiiso’s Works. 

Ill The Little School-master Mark 10 
1148 The Countess Eve 20 

William Sime’s Works. 

429 Boulderstone ; or. New Men 

and Old Populations 10 

580 The Red Route 20 

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649 Cradle and Spade 20 

Hawley Smart’s Works. 

348 F)*oin Post to Finish. A Racing 

Romance 20 

367 Tie and Trick 20 

550 Struck Down. 10 

847 Bad to Beat 10 

925 The Outsider 20 

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333 Frank Fairlegh; or, Scenes 
from the Life of a Private 

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562 Lewis Arundel ; or, The Rail- 
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150 For Himself Alone 10 

653 A Barren Title 10 

Robert Louis Stevenson’s Works. 

686 Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and 

Mr. Hyde 10 

704 Prince Otto 10 

832 Kidnapped 20 

8.55 The Dynamiter 20 

856 New Arabian Nights 20 

888 Treasure Island 10 

889 An Inland Voyage 10 

940 The Merry Men, and Other 

Tales and Fables 20 

1051 The Misadventures of John 

Nicholson 10 

1110 The Silverado Squatters 20 

Julian Sturgis’s Works. 

405 My Friends and I. Edited by 

Julian Sturgis 10 

694 John Maidment 20 

Eugene Sue’s Works. 

270 The Wandering Jew. Part I. . .^0 

270 The Wandering Jew. Part 11. 30 

271 The Mysteries of Paris. Part I .30 


271 The Mysteries of Paris. Part II 30 

George Temple’s Works. 


599 Lancelot Ward, M.P 10 

642 Britta 10 

William M. Thackeray’s Works, 

27 Vanity Fair. 1st half 20 

27 Vanity Fair. 2d half 20 

165 The History of Henry Esmond 20 

464 The Newcomes. Part 1 20 

464 The Newcomes. Part II 20 

670 The Rose and the Ring. Illus- 
.trated 10 

Works by the Author of “Tht^ 
Two Miss Flemings.” 

637 What’s His Offence? 20 

780 Rare Pale Margaret 20 

784 The Two Miss Flemings 20 

831’ Pomegranate Seed 20 

Annie Thomas’s Wo'rks. 

141 She Loved Him 1 10 

142 Jenifer 20 

.565 No Medium 10 

Bertha Thomas’s Works. 

389 Ichabod. A Portrait 10 

960 Elizabeth’s Fortune 20' 

Count Lyof Tolstoi’s Works, 

1066 My Husband and 1 10 

1069 Polikouchka 10 

1071 The Death of Ivan Iliitch 10 

1073 Two Generations , 10 

1090 The Cossacks 20 

1108 Sebastopol 20 

Antlionj" Trollope’s Works. 

32 The Land Leaguers 20 

93 Anthony Trollope’s Autobiog- 
raphy 20 





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147 Rachel Ray 20 

200 An Old Man’s Love 10 

531 The Prime Minister, 1st half. 20 
531 The Prime Minister. 2d half. . 20 

621 The Warden 10 

622 Harry Heathcote of Gangroil . . 10 
667 The Golden Lion of Granpere. 20 

700 Ralph the Heir. 1st half 20 

700 Ralph the Heir. 2d half 20 

775 The Three Clerks 20 

Harjraret Veley’s Works, 

298 Mitchelhurst Place 10 

586 “ For Percival ” 20 

Jules Verne’s Works. 

87 Dick 8and; or, A Captain at 

Fifteen 20 

100 20,000 Leagues Under the Seas 20 

368 The Southern Star ; or, the Dia- 

mond Land 20 

395 The Archipelago on Fire 10 

578 Mathias Sandorf. Illustrated. 

Part 1 10 

578 Mathias Sandorf. 111. Part H. 10 
578 Mathias Sandorf. 111. Part III. 10 
659 The Waif of the “ Cynthia . 20 
751 Great Voyages and Great Navi- 
gators. 1st half 20 

751 Great Voyages and Great Navi- 
gators. 2d half 20 

833 Ticket No. “9672.” 1st half. . . 10 
833 Ticket No. “ 9672.” 2d half . . . 10 
976 Robur the Conqueror; or. A 
Trip Round the World in a 

Flying Machine 20 

1011 Texar’s Vengeance ; or, North 

Versus South. Part 1 20 

1011 Texar’s Vengeance ; or, North 

Versus South. Part II 20 

1020 Michael Strogotf; or, The 

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1050 The Tour of Hie World in 80 

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1162 From the Earth to the Moon. 

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1153 Round the Moon. Illustrated 20 

li. B. Walford’s Works. 

241 The Baby’s Grandmother 10 

256 Mr. Smith : A Part of His Life 20 

258 Cousins 20 

658 The History of a Week lO 

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369 Miss Bretherton 10 

1116 Robert Elsmere. 1st half 20 

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192 At the World’s Mercy 10 

248 The House on the Marsh 10 

286 Deldee; or, The Iron Hand... 20 

482 A Vagrant Wife 20 

.5.56 A Prince of Darkness 20 

820 Doris’s Fortune 20 

1037 Scheherazade : A London 

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1087 A Woman’s Face; or, A Lake- 
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709 Zenobia ; or. The Fall of Pal- 
myra. 1st half 20 

709 Zenobia; or. The Fall of Pal- 
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760 Aurelian ; or, Rome in the Third 

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Samuel Warren’s Works. 

406 The Merchant’s Clerk 10 

1142 Ten Thousand a Year. Part I 20 
1142 Ten Thousand a Year. Part II 20 
1142 Ten Thousand a Year. Part III 20 


Works by the Author of “ Wedded 


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628 Wedded Hands 20 

968 Blossom and Fruit ; or, Mad- 
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E. Werner’s Works. 

327 Raymond’s Atonement 20 

540 At a High Price 20 

1067 Saint Michael. 1st half 20 

1067 Saint Michael. 2d half ^ 

1089 Home Sounds 20 

1154 A Judgment of God 20 

Whyte-iUelville’s Works. 

409 Roy’s Wife 20 

451 Market Harborough, and In- 
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John Strange Winter’s Works. 

492 Booties’ Baby ; or, Mignon. Il- 
lustrated 10 

600 Houp-La. Illustrated 10 

638 In Quarters with the 25th (The 

Black Horse) Dragoons 10 

. 688 A Man of Honor. Illustrated, 10 
74& Cavalry Life ; or. Sketches and 

Stories in Barracks and Out. 20 
813 Army Society. Life in a Gar- 
rison Town 10 

818 Pluck 10 

876 Mignon’s Secret 10 

966 A Siege Baby and Childhood’s 

Memories 20 

971 Garrison Gossip: Gathered in 

Blankhampton 20 

1032 Mignon’s Husband 20 

1039 Driver Dallas 10 

1079 Beautiful Jim: of the Blank- 

shire Regiment 20 

1117 Princess Sarah 10 

1121 Booties’ Children 10 

Mrs. Henry Wood’s Works. 

8 East Lynne. 1st half 20 

8 East Lynne. 2d half 20 

255 The Mystery 20 

277 The Surgeon’s Daughters 10 

508 The Unholy Wish 10 

513 Helen Whitney’s Wedding, and 

Other Tales 10 

514 The Mystery of Jessy Page, 

and Other Tales 10 

610 The Story of Dorothy Grape, 

and Other Tales 10 

1001 Lady Adelaide’s Oath; or. The 
Castle’s Heir 20 


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669 Pole on Whist 20 

432 THE WlTCirS HEAD. By 
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1117 Princess Sarah. By John S. 

Winter 10 

1118 The Elect Lady. By George 

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1119 No Name. By Wilkie Collins. 

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1119 No Name. By: Wilkie Collins. 

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1120 The Story of an African Farm. 

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1121 Booties’ Children. By John 

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1122 Eve. By S. Baring-Gould 20 

1123 Under - Currents. By “ The 

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1124 Diana Barrington. By B. M. 

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1125 TheMystery of a Turkish Bath. 

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1127 Madam Midas. By Fergus W. 

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1128 Cousin Pons. By Honors De 

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1134 Lord Elesmere’s Wife. By 

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1135 Aunt Diana. By Rosa Nou- 

chette Carey 20 

1136 The Princess of the Moor. By 

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1142 Ten Thousand a Year. By 

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1142 Ten Thousand a Year. By 

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1142 Ten Thousand a Year. By 

Samuel Warren. Part III... 20 

1143 The Inner House. By AV alter 

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1144 Rienzi. By Sir E. Bulwer Lyt- 

ton. 1st half 20 

1144 Rienzi. By Sir E. Bulw^er Lyt- 

ton. 2d half 20 

1145 My Fellow Laborer, and The 

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By H. Rider Haggard 20 

1146 Rhoda Fleming. By George 

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1146 Rhoda Fleming. By George 

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1147 Knight-Errant. ByEdnaLyall. 

1st half 20 

1147 Knight-Errant. By Edna Lyall. 

2d half 20 

1148 The Countess Eve. By J. H. 

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1149 Donovan: A Modern English- 
man. By Edna Lyall. 1st half 20 

1149 Donovan: A Modern English- 
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1150 The Egoist. By George Mere- 

dith. 1st half 20 

1150 The Egoist. By George Mere- 

dith. 2d half 20 

1151 For Faith and Freedom. By 

Walter Besant. 1st half 20 

1151 For Faith and Freedom. By 

Walter Besant. 2d half 20 

1154 A Judgment of God. By E. 

Werner 20 

1156 A AVitch of the Hills. By Flor- 
ence Warden 20 


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